Jigsaw
by freshouttaideas
Summary: A puzzling girl and a puzzling crime. (Spoilers for season 5.)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I'm thinking that if they want to save money and come in under budget, the Justified production team should cancel Erica Tazel and Jacob Pitts' contracts and just pay for cardboard cutouts of the Marshals Office crew waving at the camera (other than Nick Searcy, of course). It wouldn't interfere much with the show. Meanwhile, we'd still get to use our imaginations and create the interesting and complex relationships that Raylan might have with the other Marshals if they ever did appear for more than a walk-on or have a part in a story arc that didn't seem rather pointless and like a bad commercial break. So, Rachel's married (or was), and Tim may or may not have problems adjusting to life after his stint in the military. Okay. Why did we need to know that?

And that's it for my rant. I promise. Unless you count Tim's.

Meanwhile, something else has got to be happening while Raylan saves yet another teenager and gets dumped by his girl again despite his best efforts at being heroic (a bit of a season 2 déjà vu). I'm sure the Marshals Service is a busy organization and that their reputation is not hanging on the Crowes getting busted. So, some story time with the other Marshals (what are their names again?), though mostly Tim because he's my muse of the moment. A different universe from my other stuff. Enjoy, I hope.

Don't own anything by EL (RIP) or F/X (and if I did, I'd do it differently). This is all for fun, just a harmless little creative outlet. No money is getting to me. None.

* * *

**Jigsaw – Chapter One**

"Boss, the folks downstairs want a revisit from that witness we brought in under subpoena for the..."

"Just give me the problem, Tim. I don't need the whole history."

There was some snark building, but Tim didn't give it air, settled for a drop of sarcasm in the tone. "Okay. It's that out-of-state dude that..."

"Christ, Tim, it's not like we've never had to chase down someone out-of-state before. You know the procedure. Just make the call, get it done."

Art didn't even look up.

So Tim didn't bother with another word of explanation, didn't bother reminding Art that this particular lowlife took six weeks of tracking through small town Georgia and into the mountains the last time the US Attorney's office issued a subpoena, didn't bother reminding him that it took two Deputy US Marshals and four members of the Georgia State Police to bring the witness in once they'd cornered him and that one of the staties ended up in the hospital, didn't bother mentioning that the federal government landed in a legal battle with the man's lawyer over the injuries he sustained during the delivery of the subpoena and that the charges brought against him at the time, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, threatening a federal officer and possession of illegal firearms, were subsequently dropped. He did show up in court finally though as an unwilling witness for the prosecution in a case involving the shooting of a Kentucky game warden. His testimony was a stinking dumpster of perjury.

Tim eyed the blinding bald spot on Art's head, decided he also wouldn't bother his boss with the idea he had for delivering this subpoena this time since it wasn't well-received when Tim suggested it the last time.

Get it done. Alright. Fine. So he'd get it done. And no one had better complain about his methods.

Get it done. That's all he was hearing. That's all anyone was saying with tensions in the office running taut as a banjo string on an upright bass.

Get it done.

He turned and trudged back to his desk and picked up the phone, call waiting, spoke to the clerk in the US Attorney's office, hung up. Heywood Humphrey's face was taunting him, smirking up from the mugshot paperclipped to the folder Tim had open on his keyboard. He flicked the man's face right between the eyes then ran his finger down the arrest report until he found what he was looking for, the name of a hunting outfit in north Georgia. Picking up the phone again, he dialed the number and booked a guide for the weekend, requested him by name. He set the receiver down in the cradle and looked around the office thinking he really should take someone with him for this – it was procedure for confronting a man with a history of assaulting law enforcement officials – but after doing two visual circuits of the bullpen he huffed out a dismissal for the lot, a small explosion of frustration through his lips. He'd go alone. There was no one here he wanted to sit in a car with for four hours and that was just one half the trip.

It was blown all to shit this week, the easy feel of the job. It was like Mom and Dad fighting.

"Um, Raylan?" The office administrator was standing awkwardly in front of Raylan's desk. "The Chief wants to know if you plan on submitting any expenses for signature this month?"

Raylan looked pointedly at Art's office. "Nope."

"Okay, thanks," and she left awkwardly.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tim mumbled under his breath, then screamed it at the top of his lungs in his head, _oh, for fuck's sake,_ hoping to shake it out, shake it off. Instead, it stirred up a headache._ Fuck, _he thought, calmer, digging in his drawer for some pain killers, swallowing four. He hated being the go-between, the push-pull between fighting parents. Tim was the only one in the office not playing this game, and he was going to continue not playing this game, not passing on messages until Art got _his_ message – _Tim don't play!_

At least it was Friday. He rubbed his neck, looked at the clock – 4:45pm. He couldn't think of any job small enough to fill the exact time left until five and he didn't want to start anything that might take longer than fifteen minutes, keep him here in this pressure cooker past his contractual obligation. He tucked the phone under his chin and shuffled some files, decided to look busy.

He turned to his right, studied Art sitting with his head down, pushing a pen across some paperwork. Art was definitely the dad – he had that dad thing down pat, that _if I ignore it all maybe it'll go away on its own_ thing. And though no one was talking about it, it was obvious to all that Art had let his frustration at Raylan out with a fist. Congratulations, but disappointing. It made it easy for Tim to draw the comparison with the only dad he had experience with growing up and it wasn't a flattering comparison.

And that left the mom role for Raylan. He fit it okay – more likely than Art to verbalize his discontent, strutting around the office acting like he had tapped into life's secrets while the rest of them were wandering without a clue and persecuting the enlightened. Fucking drama queen, still thinking it was better as a one-man show and no one could do it like him. He was chipping away at his own pedestal then passing Art the hammer to chip away at his.

What was it that guy, Sartre, said? – _Hell is other people. _Yep.

So just what had Raylan done? Tim really didn't give a fuck except that he was eating shit for it too. Clearly it was something bad – bad enough that Art wouldn't talk about it, bad enough that he barely acknowledged his senior deputy anymore except to send him orders through the rest of them. And if that wasn't enough to drive Tim to drink, Nelson was positively dancing around the office, no longer the underdog, turning stomachs with his sickly sweet overtures to Raylan just to hide his glee that the shit had finally come full circle. Fuck, it was annoying.

Tim's thoughts must've been powerful and directed. Nelson twitched like he'd felt the vibe, hopped up from his desk and skipped over to their end of the bullpen.

"Fuck," Tim breathed his current favorite word into the dead phone. "Here comes a motive for murder."

He said it loudly enough that Raylan heard, looked where Tim was looking and smirked in appreciation of the sarcasm.

"Hey, Raylan." Nelson smiled, gooey, generous in his new lofty position of second from the bottom. "A bunch of us are going for a beer. You want to come along?"

"Thanks for including me in your plans, Nelson," Tim said, unable to resist an opportunity to tease, and besides there was an awkward space crying to be filled as Raylan dug around for a good excuse to say no to the invitation. "A beer with Raylan, huh? Should warn you – better bring your credit card." He leaned back and enjoyed Nelson's discomfort.

A stammering apology followed. Raylan interrupted it. "Uh, maybe. You in, Tim?" He looked over the barrier with an invitation, an eyebrow salute for the timely entertainment.

A drink sounded good right now, but the company would sour the taste. Tim felt he needed a bit of distance and some perspective before he reacted to it all and did something stupid. He shook his head. "Nope. I don't drink. Gave it up for Lent."

"Bullshit," Raylan coughed into his hand. "Come for a drink, Tim. Nelson's paying."

"I'd rather go to an AA meeting, thanks." He snatched the Humphrey file from his desk and stood up, looking longingly at the hallway and the perspective that he hoped might be there waiting for him.

"Tell me, Tim, do you mean to be such a prick or is it accidental?"

The retort came with a glued-on grin. _"A true gentleman is one who is never unintentionally rude."_

"You must've stolen that line from somewhere – it's too literate for you."

"Oscar Wilde. According to him I'm a gentleman. Not so sure about you, Raylan. Gee, look at the time. Gotta go."

"Where're you off to in such a hurry?"

"My empty house. For once it's looking better than a bar."

The clock ticked over to five as he slipped between Raylan's desk and Nelson and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Rachel asked as he passed, stopping him with a wall of seniority. She didn't bother looking up either.

"Going to get 'er done…ma'am."

There was a warning on her face when she looked up.

"Subpoena." He tapped her computer screen with the file he was holding and said in a controlled monotone, "Odd word. I looked it up today procrastinating going to talk to Chris, our tech dick, about a problem I was having with my phone. You want to know what it means?" He didn't wait for a 'yes' or a 'no'. "It's Medieval Latin for 'under penalty,' first used around the fifteenth century. The fuller phrase 'subpoena duces tecum' means 'you shall bring with you under penalty.' 'Duces' is a conjugation of the Latin verb, 'ducere', meaning 'to bring' – that's second person future indicative – and 'tecum' is 'with you.'" He paused to let her digest the information. "We should update it, don't you think? Something like – 'Get your fucking ass down to court now or we'll put you behind bars.' That might be too long..."

Rachel looked like she wanted to put Tim's eye out with the pen she was holding. She put a hand on her forehead, effectively blocking Tim from view, and focused back on the paper on her desk. "Just get it done."

"Yes, ma'am."

He stood a moment watching her until she felt it, looked back up.

"Tim, not today."

He shrugged. "No one's interested in etymology anymore." He got a huff from her, turned and slipped out of the office.

There was a group gathered waiting for the elevator, he swung wide of them, ignoring another invitation for drinks, and took the stairs to the basement. A bare nod to the security guard at the door and he was gone, outside, the air a little crisp, bracing, the sun low and bright, out to the parking lot and into his truck, the headache already retreating as he settled behind the wheel and shut the door. He was never so happy to be alone.

"Halle-_fucking-_lujah."

He stretched the word out turning the engine over, let the truck idle and skipped through his playlist for something loud and aggressive. Finding a good track, he cranked up the volume, put the truck in gear and drove sedately out of the parking lot and cruised home.

* * *

He was steering his truck through his neighborhood less than five minutes later, an older part of the city, workers' houses on the wrong side of the tracks that the gentrifiers thankfully hadn't bothered with, cheap, rough. Tim had found a nice apartment right downtown when he first got the assignment to Lexington, but he hated feeling caged, didn't want to live too far out of the bustle either though, so settled for renting this small semi-detached a short drive from the court house. It came with an easy but negligent landlord. And the neighbor was quiet. She lived alone too – there was a boyfriend but he moved out shortly after Tim moved in. They'd say hi when their paths crossed, toss a word or two occasionally between the yards, reminders for garbage pick-up, complaints about the weather. She always smiled, didn't matter the day.

She wasn't his type. She rode a bicycle everywhere, even in the snow, and had more tattoos than he did. He had her pegged as a soft-hearted, left-leaning, free-spirited innocent, the kind to keep crystals in her living room to increase the energy of her chakra or whatever the fuck, probably drank herbal tea. He didn't give her much thought except to admire her back when she wore those strappy tops in the warm weather. She had a nice back, smooth and enticing with a spider on a web tattooed on her right shoulder blade. It was the only spider he'd ever had an urge to touch. Shame she wasn't his type.

She was wearing one those strappy tops this evening, probably why he decided to be chivalrous. It wasn't warm enough for a strappy top but the argument she was having with her ex on the front step was clearly hot enough to keep the evening chill from affecting her. The stiff line of her back told Tim everything. She'd stepped outside her door to have it out with him, keep the ex from stepping in.

They both looked over when Tim pulled into his driveway, the bass notes from the speakers booming, announcing his arrival even with the windows up. He directed a hard look over at her visitor, shut off the truck, got out, leaned against the open door and waited for a reaction.

"Is there something I can do for you?" The ex sent the empty snarl and bark across the yard, tired of the unwanted scrutiny.

Work was still hanging on Tim and he kept it there for this. "Nope. I'm fine. Thanks for asking." He held the man's angry gaze for a second or two past casual then switched over to her. "Jo," a pointed look, "anything I can do for you?"

She brushed off his concerns, rolling her eyes straight up. "Keep that Friday beer you promised me cold. I need it tonight. I'll be over in a minute."

"No problem," he said, playing along, then added, though for the life of him he had no idea why, "I'll order the pizza. The usual?"

She nodded.

"Okay. See you in five."

"Alright."

Tim turned and reached into the cab for his back-up weapon that he'd set on the console when he left the courthouse, then, standing so the ex could see what he was doing, he dropped the magazine and made a show of checking it, slipped it back into place and slid the gun into the waist of his jeans, closed and locked his truck and walked into his house.

He stood just inside, waiting. The slam of a car door, an engine turning over, a bit of tire tread left on the asphalt was his signal that he wasn't needed anymore. He smirked, kicked off his boots and went to the kitchen for a beer. The doorbell rang while he was rooting through the refrigerator hoping for some inspiration for dinner. Slamming the door closed he went to see what she wanted.

Jo had covered her back with a warm and wrinkled flannel shirt. A little bounce, a helpless grin, an uncertain finger wave, and she said, "Thanks – that got rid of him in a hurry. Is that gun real?"

"Yep."

She didn't turn to leave. Maybe she wanted reassurance that he was going to be here if the ex came back. She couldn't have been serious about the beer.

He hinted, said, "You let me know if he shows up again."

A finger reached across the space between them and poked him. "Where's the beer you promised?"

"I didn't," Tim pointed out, looking down at the arm linking them, the tattoo wrapped around the wrist. "That was you that said that…about the beer."

"Maybe." She smiled again, undeterred. "Did you already order the pizza or do I get a say on the toppings?"

She took a step closer and he took a step back, a reaction. She took it as an invitation and slipped past him into his house.

Flustered, he couldn't come up with something appropriately rude to say, could only watch, irritated, while she toed off her runners and peered around his place curiously. He resigned himself to company and pizza and the fact that he'd be forced to order a vegetarian special on thin whole wheat crust with fucking soy cheese. The day just wouldn't end fast enough.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

**Jigsaw – Chapter Two**

His eyes were drawn to her hands as she shoveled the last piece of a meat-lover's special with extra cheese into her mouth and licked her fingers. They were a mess – the nails short, broken, the knuckles covered in scrapes, cuts, rough and dry. The pizza was her surprise choice, blowing his stereotyping to shit, and he split it with her and they drank beer and she talked about her ex and how he was back trying to make up with her only for the convenience of a place to stay. He'd gambled away his paycheck again.

"Sounds like a winner," said Tim, wishing he'd ordered two pizzas or some wings or something. The girl could eat.

"God, I could eat more." She wiped her hands on her jeans and stared into the empty box. "I have some leftover fried chicken in my fridge. You want me to get it?"

"Yeah, sure. I've got a frozen pie thing."

"Homemade?"

He stared. "You're joking, right?"

"Get it out. I'll be right back." She stood up and loped to the door.

"You need me to come with you?" Tim pointed outside. "In case, you know…"

"It must be tough being a gentleman all the time," she said.

"If I was a gentleman, I'd have challenged him to pistols at dawn."

"I think you're serious."

"Maybe."

"I'm pretty sure I can handle my ex without anyone getting shot, thanks. Really, he's…" She threw her arms out, at a loss to describe him.

"Lame?"

"Yeah, lame. Get that pie out. I was on a job today that had to get finished before the weekend. I worked through lunch and I only had a donut for breakfast and then nothing but coffee." She spun her hands like a gerbil on a wheel, "I'm a little wound up," and skipped out.

Tim made coffee – he felt he needed some to keep up – poured a glass of bourbon while he waited for the caffeine boost to finish brewing. He meant to drink the whiskey in the time it took her to get back but she was faster than he anticipated, had come in so quietly he didn't hear her. She was standing at the entrance to the kitchen holding a plate of chicken and watching silently while he tipped the glass up, downing the last of it, a practiced and efficient move. He set the glass down on the counter, slid it over beside the bottle, turned and saw her.

"Wow. Jaded?" Her eyes lingered on the glass. "You made that look easy."

"Practice."

She chewed the inside of her lip. "Why do you have a gun? I mean…why do you carry a gun?"

"I live alone for a reason," he said, a vague reply, and by the expression on her face he figured she was trying to puzzle out if it was an answer or a brush off.

He decided to help her. "I'm a Federal Marshal." He slipped his ID out of his pocket and held it up for her to look at then tossed it onto the counter beside the empty glass.

"Oh. You're a cop? I did _not_ have you pegged as a cop. I figured you for a contractor or something with that truck. Definitely an outdoor job – maybe a surveyor or a dog walker, maybe a serial killer." Her eyes widened, working to get a laugh.

"This is why I live alone," he said in a voice flatter than three-day-old beer in a glass. "Microwave." He pointed behind her.

She turned and put the plate in, turned it on, turned back. "So, what's it like being a cop?"

Tim poured himself another glass of whiskey, shook the bottle to show he'd share. She shook her head.

"I wouldn't know. I'm not a cop. I'm a Deputy with the US Marshals Service – we do court work. We don't arrest people and solve crimes. Well, sort of, sometimes we do, I guess. Well, we do arrest people."

"And you need a gun."

It was a statement but a question too, the way she said it. It was a funny thing to ask – after all this was the state of Kentucky and he was in law enforcement – but it made him consider the fuller implication and he decided that, yeah, _he_ needed a gun. "It's a job requirement," he hedged, sipping his second glass of whiskey. "What do you do? Your hands… They're a fucking disaster."

"I'm a meth cooker."

He choked; she laughed, abrupt and open.

"_Kidding._ I'm a tiler. It's hands-on work and I always get stuck doing the finicky bits. It's hard with gloves on to cut the small pieces and I do the finishing work since I'm always the only girl on the jobsite. Apparently girls are better at it." She didn't sound like she believed the statement. She held up her hands so he could admire them. "Glamorous, huh? Grouting is killer. I get lots of cuts from the tile edges."

"Yeah, glamorous. Knee pads?"

"Handcuffs?"

He ducked his head, embarrassed, and the microwave pinged, rescuing him from the conversation.

They finished off the chicken and ate most of the apple pie and drank coffee and she spun like a top for another hour and then fell asleep on his couch, like someone had turned off the switch, just like that, out cold. He left her talking, found her asleep when he came back from the kitchen with two fresh opened beers in his hands, one for her. Wondering what to do about his unwanted guest, he stood looking down at her then sighed quietly, tiptoed the last few feet to his chair, got comfortable and drank both cans of beer, one after the other, and watched the news with the volume turned down low.

Shortly after midnight, a car pulled up and there was a knock on her door, someone whispering her name in a shout, "Josephine, open up. I want to talk to you."

Tim slipped a gun into the back of his jeans and walked outside in his socks to investigate. He was glad he'd changed into an old beat-up t-shirt that showed off a couple of tattoos and some muscle.

"Hey, loser," he said to the shadow on her step.

The ex backed up to see around the post of the small stoop. "What the fuck do you want? Go mind your own business."

Tim closed his door quietly and walked to hers. "Look, it's late. Go away. Don't come back here anymore. She doesn't want you here and I sure don't want you here."

"You sleeping with her?"

It was a pretense of macho hydrant pissing.

Tim folded his arms. "She's not my type. You, though, you might be."

"You a faggot?"

"If I was I hope I'd have better taste than to be sniffing around you. I'm a Deputy US Marshal," said Tim, wondering if the world would ever let him have some time off. "I run your name, would I find any outstanding warrants? Your face looks familiar. Maybe I've seen it on the back of a milk carton. Did you run away from your mama recently? Or, I dunno, get involved in something illegal, some gambling maybe? You in trouble? If you are, you definitely stay away from her."

"Fuck you."

Tim smiled, kept an eye on him while he slunk past, made a note of the license plate number when the car peeled out for the second time that night.

Jo was standing dazed in the living room when he went back in.

"Wow, it's late. I'd better go," she said. "Sorry I fell asleep. Sorry about the doofus."

He waited with his door open until she was inside her house and he heard the lock turn then he went to his kitchen, poured another whiskey and sat on the front steps enjoying the dark. The shivering finally moved him inside and up to bed.

* * *

Awake before the alarm, Tim made coffee and packed a bag and his rifle and loaded up his truck. The sun wasn't up yet when he filled his thermos and finally tied up the laces on his boots, ready to go. She was pushing her bike out the front door and locking up just as he was.

"Where are you off to at this hour on a Saturday?" she asked, voice quiet and early-morning gravelly.

"Meeting somebody to go hunting."

Her reaction wasn't exactly disapproval, but something, maybe unwanted surprise. "Hunting?"

The words started forming behind his lips, sarcastic poetry about the rush of a good hunt, the silence intense, tricks played by sunlight or moonlight or night-vision, mirages from the heat or cold fingers on a trigger, a target in the cross-hairs. But he bit it all back – it was too early in the morning or maybe it was her. There was just no good reason to be mean to her. "It's for work. I have to deliver a subpoena. The guy's hard to track down."

"Oh, so you're hunting _him_. Not _hunting_, hunting."

He moved the conversation along. "Where are you going at four-thirty in the morning?"

Her face lit up. "I have another job. It doesn't pay as well but I like it more. I have to fit the work in when I can. Maybe you could come by and see sometime…what I do."

"Yeah, sure."

"So where do you have to go to find this guy that you have to leave so early?"

"Georgia. Hopefully it won't take long. I should be back tomorrow."

"You've got a weird job." She hesitated, the door locked, her front tire resting on the next step down. "Um…"

"Hey, if doofus gives you any trouble while I'm gone, call me." He dug around in his pocket and handed her a bent card.

"And what can you do about it from Georgia, Sir Lancelot?"

That dragged a chuckle from him. "Make a call."

"Send in the reserves?"

"Something like that."

"Thanks, but I'm sure I'll be fine. He really is a doofus." She slipped the card into a pocket on her knapsack, smiled back at him, started humming, then singing, settled her pack on her back and pedaled away down the street.

He recognized the song, _Georgia on My Mind,_ kept listening for it – she did it proud. "Put a light on that bike," he called after her when he couldn't hear it anymore.

She lifted a hand briefly, waved, tucked her head down under her arm to look back.

"And fucking watch where you're going," he said more quietly. "You idiot."

* * *

Tim peered through the cross-hairs at a large buck standing in a camouflage of light at the edge of a clearing, its hide unevenly speckled, shadows from the branches above. The animal bowed its head, pushing the debris on the forest floor away from something tender and edible, unaware of the finger on the trigger of a rifle over a quarter mile away.

"I can get you closer. It must be over four hundred yards, maybe more."

Squinting against the sunlight, Tim did an estimate, battle experience. "I'd say about six-fifty."

"This is way too hard a shot on this rise, though we're lucky we got a clear line. You want me to try it? Or we can skirt around and get closer. Probably get you to two hundred yards or so if we're quiet and he don't take off first. How good a shot are you?"

"I don't want a hundred and fifty pounds of deer meat," said Tim, turning away from the scope and rubbing his eye. "I haven't even got a freezer."

"Then why the fuck are we out here? Hell, I'll take the meat. Me and the boys at the hunting shop'll split it. I'll drop my price for the day in half if you can get me that set of antlers."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Tim set back up, tucking the rifle against his shoulder, eyeing his target, working the numbers for the shot in his head. He waited a heartbeat or two just to enjoy the anticipation, the familiarity in the moment. The hardness of the stock on his cheek, the smell of the gun, he could feel the chinstrap rubbing grit and stubble against skin, the armor and the cammies and the gloves bulky and constricting like swaddling, boots tight up the ankles, a buddy to his right, chattering numbers and obscenities with equal emphasis in a dry tone, another behind him shifting in the dirt, a feeling of belonging and purpose within a framework of no belonging and no purpose, and mostly, mostly, the humanity everywhere, base, overwhelming, inescapable. More than memories, it was a part of him. The sensations were tantalizing, real. He relaxed into them, sighed, squeezed off a round. The buck had dropped by the time his scope settled back.

"Sweet Jesus! That was one hell of a shot. I think you took it bang on, bulls-eyed that motherfucker right through the head. Holy shit – he just fucking dropped."

He was up and moving, a big man, Tim's guide, Heywood Humphrey, well over six feet and solid, taking one long stride for every two from Tim, forcing him to jog a little to keep up as they covered the ground to get to their trophy.

"Damn, I can't believe you made that shot. So was that lucky or are you that fucking good?"

"I've shot some." Tim played it down, a bite of melancholy for what it all brought with it.

"Yeah, no shit."

* * *

The story of his kill got him invited for a beer after lunch. The group of locals pandering to city-folk willing to pay for a day's worth of Survivor Man usually didn't keep up the pretense of friendly after the job was done but they were happy for the deer meat and the nice set of antlers to add to the roadhouse collection. It was worth the price of a beer to satisfy their curiosity about the visitor with the old rifle and the six-hundred-plus yard perfect shot.

"I should get going," said Tim after two beers and a sandwich. "I'm meeting a friend in Atlanta for dinner." He fished around in his pocket for some cash, counted out some for the late lunch, some to pay Heywood for his services. "What do I owe you?"

When Heywood looked up and saw Tim's hand extended he put his own out without thinking and Tim slapped the money and the subpoena into the outstretched palm.

"Mr. Heywood Humphrey, you've just been served a subpoena to appear in court in Lexington on the date stated with the items listed. Failure to appear could result in charges being laid against you. Come say hi. I work upstairs there at the Federal Court House."

Tim dropped some more cash on the table and stood up.

"You fucker." Reality was creeping up on Heywood, slowly catching on to what just happened. "You fucker." He stood up too, dwarfing Tim, his size intimidating. "Do you know what happened to the last bunch of fuckers that tried to give me one of these?"

"Yep. If I remember the details of the report correctly there were six of them that cornered you and you didn't make it easy, put one in the hospital all for a piece of paper. Keep in mind, there's only me this time."

Tim said it like he'd scored a point; Heywood didn't think he had though.

"That's right. There's only you."

"I guess I gotta explain it. Heywood, that means your lawyer won't be able to pull the abuse bullshit if I decide there's a reason to lay charges against you – something like, say, assaulting a federal officer, or even just threatening a federal officer would do it." Tim looked up to the ceiling, said, "God grant me the opportunity."

"You'd have to be able to sign that arrest sheet."

"Yeah, you broke that State Police officer's arm, didn't you?" Tim cocked his head to the side. "I'm ambidextrous – my scribble is just as illegible with my left hand or my right. And I'm just as good a shot with a rifle or a handgun." He raised his shirt showing off a bit of a Glock. "And in case you're getting any ideas, I should warn you, I got my truck loaded with toys that I'd be happy to bring out and demonstrate. We could play all day." The eyebrows went up, an exclamation mark added to the sentence. "I'll be back with a warrant and some handcuffs if you don't service that subpoena." Tim paused for a reaction, and getting none he turned his back, collected his jacket and walked out.

It was all posturing. If Heywood and his friends had decided to make it hard, Tim wouldn't have been able to do much about it, likely would've ended up in the hospital like the Statie. It didn't help his mood any as he considered that fact, that all he needed was a little snorting and foot-stomping, some flashing of bright feathers to avert the violence. It made him wonder what all the shit he saw in Afghanistan was about, what drove people to do the things he saw done there. It did his head in thinking about it, made him angry and he wished while he walked across the gravel parking lot that he might hear the door to the roadhouse slam open, some angry words calling him back, that the men inside might realize that it was all smoke and hot air and come out here and make him run the gauntlet to his truck, earn the day. He settled behind the wheel and stared at the building, waiting for it. Disappointed and relieved in equal measure, he turned over the engine, backed out and headed to Atlanta. He really did have plans for dinner.

* * *

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	3. Chapter 3

**Jigsaw – Chapter Three**

There weren't many people Tim felt comfortable with, not many for whom he would peek out from behind his fortifications and share a bit of himself. Mostly he put it up and hid behind it, his body armor of efficiency and sarcasm, everything funny and done. Max was one of the few, occupying the same space, a fellow stranger, another expatriate from the nation of mankind. Max, Edward Maxwell, had seen Tim clearly from the beginning. Maybe it was the circumstances under which they met, maybe it was the age difference, maybe it was the similarities of their experiences.

Max was a Vietnam War veteran, infantry like Tim, old enough to be his grandfather if all the generations between had started young, been less careful. The night they met, Tim had tried to crawl from the bar he and his buddies had closed back to the cheap hotel in Atlanta where they had rented a room on a weekend off base before heading back to his battalion after training – he had tried but didn't make it, got separated somehow, maybe when he passed out in a haze of beer and whiskey underneath an expressway. He woke up to Max's face.

"What're you doing, kid? Shit, I got you covered but you can't sleep now. Not here. This place is crawling with gooks. It ain't safe."

Max had found him, sat vigil, kept a few curious drifters looking to ransack pockets away while Tim slept off the worst of his drunk then finally managed to wake him and get him moving. "You need food, kid. You gotta eat if you're gonna drink that much. Life's shit will still be there too, when you're sober again so you might as well hang on to your money for breakfast."

By the smell of his breath, Tim figured the man knew what he was talking about. The situation was amusing despite the skull-splitting headache and the mouth that felt like he'd been sucking up the ground of the Badwater Basin in Death Valley, so Tim introduced himself and gamely bought them both a meal at an all-night spot that wasn't choosy about clientele. They talked until dawn, easy, unguarded, hung-over, then shared a bottle and watched the sun come up over the concrete. Max might wander into crazy town once in a while but he was the one person in Tim's life that made him feel like he wasn't completely out of rhythm with the world. Sober, Max was a sharp studier of human nature and a clean, head-on view of reality, and drunk, he was the hair of the dog for Tim's hangover with life. It became a tradition – that diner, breakfast, lunch or dinner, and some bare and raw company whenever Tim could get to Atlanta.

"You need a new sleeping bag, Max. That one's getting worn out."

"You need to move on, Tim, this life of yours is getting worn out. I can see it on your face. As for the sleeping bag, well, it's been a bad winter here. I've had some fights over it, lived in it straight for days during that storm."

"Been a bad winter all over. And my life's just fine, thanks. What the fuck do you know about moving on, anyway?"

"I know, 'cause I couldn't. It's given me some intimate knowledge of the problem."

"Yeah, okay, so you're the expert. How exactly do you suggest I move on?"

"Fuck if I know. Look at me. I live in a cardboard box. You gonna take advice from a guy who lives in a cardboard box?"

It hurt Tim to hear it. He fooled himself most days that Max was fine, that Max was someone who was on top of what made the world spin. He twitched something like a smile. "Let's get something to eat, buddy. We can find a store open in the morning and get you some supplies."

"I need some new boots. These ones have a hole." He lifted a foot and showed Tim.

"I just got new ones. I gotta warn you – it's hard to find real leather anymore. We'll look though."

Max had a few regular spots that he called home and Tim had found him this trip without too much trouble. He helped him camouflage his belongings in some neglected grass under an off-ramp then took him for a late dinner or early breakfast depending on where you started counting time from and listened to the street news.

"I haven't seen Phil in a while. I think maybe the gooks got him. He hasn't reported in."

"Maybe," said Tim. "I'm sorry to hear it. You trust him."

"I gave him my old jacket."

"You told me you lost it."

"I needed you to get me another one."

"For fuck's sake, you could've just said."

Max looked up sheepishly, slyly. "Yeah, well. Phil doesn't look after himself. He's a crazy alcoholic."

"Uh-huh." Tim smiled.

"Shit, I'm crazy alcoholic."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't you get that way."

"I'll never be crazy, Max. That's half my problem – I'm too fucking sane. Did you check for Phil at the hospitals?"

"No. Do you think he might be there?"

Tim thought it more likely he'd be at the city morgue. "What's his full name? I'll look into it." He pulled out a small notepad and a pen and wrote down the information.

"O'Connor or O'Reilly or something. Something with an 'O'."

"Okay."

"I said an 'O'."

"That is an 'O'."

"I hope you can read that later."

Tim made a face, flipped the notepad closed and hid it back in his jacket pocket.

Max leaned across the table then, said in an alcohol-laced whisper, "There's a gook working the streets here, picking us off."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I hear he's been around, not just Atlanta. Some guy I met up from Orlando, he told us about him. He sneaks up close, gets real personal. I hear they find the bodies like we used to back in 'Nam, bits cut off and fed to 'em." Max opened his mouth wide and brought his hand up like he was stuffing something in, decided it was a good idea and picked up some toast and took a bite. Setting the food down, he looked cautiously around the diner then slid a long knife out from under the table, from under his clothes somewhere. "I got this, just in case."

"Jesus, Max, put that away. I don't want to get kicked out. I haven't had my second coffee yet and I'm gonna need it if we're gonna sit up talking all night."

"You gonna stay a bit?"

"I have to take off by lunch tomorrow, but, yeah, till then."

"Maybe I can get some sleep. Can you take watch?"

Tim looked closely but it was hard to tell with Max if he were serious or not. It wasn't like him to stay in crazy town, just drift in and out, mostly out. Life on the streets was hard on people, they always looked tired and Max was no different – and no different from the last time Tim saw him, same dirt, same blood-shot whites and worn features. Tim pulled out the map for crazy town and got his bearings.

"Sure I can take watch, buddy. We're on fifty percent, right? Hey, I got an idea. Why don't I get a room at that place up the street? You can have a shower and sleep on a bed for a change. I got you some new clothes."

"Great. It's ours, the hotel?"

"It's ours. Well behind the lines."

"Alright then." Max whooped loudly and turned a few heads.

They ate and talked then walked down to the hotel and Tim paid for a room. Max slept on the bed and Tim dozed in a chair. The next morning he left Max snoring and went to the nearest Package store and bought some cheap whiskey, stopped at an army surplus outlet and picked out a good sleeping bag and some boots, topped up the purchases with some MREs. He was at the cash before he decided on one more item, left the disgruntled clerk standing there while he picked out a good hunting knife, one that would fold up for safe-keeping.

Max was up when he got back. Tim bought some fresh food for breakfast and they shared it. They argued about a phone but Tim finally convinced Max to take one, just in case.

"It'll probably go missing the first week."

"Then hide it."

Max grumbled more when Tim tried to convince him to trade knives for the new one – he liked the lethal look of the long one better – but he agreed when Tim showed him how easy the new one was to hide and to open. They parted on the street and Tim headed for home, north up to Lexington.

* * *

He discovered her by accident; he didn't go looking.

Monday at work started out no better than Friday, tensions high. Tim volunteered to interview a guest at the Fayette County Detention Center, a lead on a wanted fugitive, just to get out from the high-pressure system that seemed only to be affecting the Lexington Marshals office. Around lunch time he jumped at the chance to run some records across the street to an attorney at the District Court House, Art eyeing him like he could see right through to the motivation and wishing he could escape too. Tim took the short way over, jaywalking, and the long way back, moving away from the court houses and over to North Mill Street to get something to eat. He ordered a sandwich at a deli and leaned against the counter waiting, trying not to look too awkward among the suits and the regular people who wore civilization comfortably. He changed his mind about sitting at a table, got his food to go. It wasn't a sunny or particularly warm day but he was more easy outside away from the crowds, understood why Max never gave it up. He meandered till he found a bench and sat down to eat.

She was working across the street, up a ladder tiling a mosaic above a business in the middle of renovations. The words _Starry Night Café_ were already in place, pieced together in golds and oranges and yellows, and she was filling in the space around them with more bits of tile, bright and reflective, vibrant, individual jewels in a palette from sky blue and gray to deep indigo. There was a lot left to do and it seemed like painstaking work, each piece tiny, no more than an inch square.

So this was her job – or more likely her _other _job. Tim watched her work while he finished his sandwich then stood up, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth then his palms on his jeans and wandered over to take a closer look.

He stood beside the ladder and peered up at her. "Hey, Jo."

She turned singing, _"Where you goin' with that gun in your hand?"_

"What? I'm working. It's holstered."

"Hendrix," she said, "Duh." She sang again. "_Hey, Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand?"_ added some da-do-da-do guitar parts.

"Right." He knew the song, chuckled, embarrassed.

She smiled, tilted her head. "What are you doing here?"

Tim pointed down the street in the direction of work. "Court house."

"Of course. Lunch break?"

He nodded, though she had turned away and was coming down the ladder and missed it.

"Starry Night Café, huh?" He tipped his head to the business next door. "Right beside the Kentucky Moon Bar."

"Street theme, maybe. Have you eaten?"

He nodded again. She saw it this time.

"Well, since you're here, would you mind watching my stuff, just for a minute while I get a sandwich?"

"I'll get you a sandwich. I want a coffee anyway. What do you feel like?"

"Um, anything good, kind sir."

"Alright."

He headed back to the deli wondering if she was making fun of him, bought her something with lots of meat and cheese on it and she seemed happy with it. They sat on Tim's bench while she ate, explaining what she was doing as she chewed, talking with her mouth full, enthusiastic. She'd cover her lack of manners with her hand and look sideways at him apologetically but continue anyway.

"I love doing mosaics. They're like puzzles only better. The glass is a bitch to work with but it reflects the light. Pops more than ceramic or marble."

"I don't know how you've got the patience for it. It looks like a shitload of work. I get why you end up doing the finicky bits on the jobsites."

"Not many businesses are willing to fork out the money for art like this. Even the glass is expensive. I'm not making a penny for my time." She shrugged helplessly at her obsession. "What I'm getting barely covers the cost of the materials. That's why I do regular tiling work. It pays the bills."

Tim had been picking through the boxes of tesserae while she cleaned up before eating, the colorful glass pieces begging to be touched and admired. He still had one in his hand, a small square of pale yellow, when they crossed the road to sit on the bench. He held it up but there was no sun today to show it off.

"What's this color for?"

"The stars."

"Stars mostly aren't yellow, you know."

"You sound like my grade school teacher. 'Josephine, cows aren't purple!' What did she know? Had she seen _every_ cow in the world? Besides, van Gogh painted his stars yellow, and if it's good enough for him…"

"Well, our star is yellow, I guess," he said, trying to take back his criticism.

"Yes, it is." Jo looked up and squinted at the clouds. "Now, if it would only show itself. My hands just won't get warm today."

He looked down at them resting on her lap. She was picking at the thinset that had hardened on her fingers.

* * *

Art was digging through the top drawer of Tim's desk when he walked back in from lunch. The Chief saw him, cheekily popped a mint from Tim's stash.

"Hey!" said Tim, indignant, stopping just past Rachel. "What d'you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm abusing my position of authority." Art planted his hands on his hips. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Now I know where they all disappear to," Tim grumbled walking closer, a good glare for his boss. He crossed his arms with a huff, acting the part, but he didn't really mind. Art was generous with his treats.

"Could you get the ones in the green package next time?" Art pointed to the color on the wrapper. "Spearmint, I think. I like those better."

"That was all they had."

"Oh, too bad."

"Does this mean I get to help myself to what's in your desk?"

"No." Art wagged the package of mints until Tim held out his hand, dropped it into Tim's palm then sauntered past, grinning, and into his office.

Tim followed him with his eyes, narrowed them menacingly, but Art didn't look too concerned.

"Nice lunch?"

A soft voice touched his back and Tim turned. Rachel was smiling, a warmness there that had been missing lately, especially around her eyes.

"Yes, thank you. I sat on a bench and had a sandwich. What's different in here?" He turned in a circle looking for some furniture out of place. "Did Art redecorate or something while I was gone?"

"Raylan has decided to take some holiday time. And now that the entire morning has passed without him showing up to work anyway, I think Art is finally convinced that Raylan _really is_ taking some holiday time. He's been out of his cave twice in the last hour and he's not scowling."

"Huh. That must be it. I thought maybe he'd had the place painted and I didn't notice."

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

**Jigsaw – Chapter Four**

The yellow square of glass was still in his pocket. Tim found it when he pulled out his keys the next morning and dumped them on his desk, the yellow falling out with them, a piece of the universe, an earthbound star. He turned it over and over, playing it between his fingers while he made a few calls to the hospitals in downtown Atlanta, using his title, Deputy Marshal Gutterson, to get something beyond a cursory check of patient records for a homeless man named Phil O'Connor, O'Reilly, O'Sullivan. He spent an hour on it before anyone else arrived for work, got nothing, then got down to business. He decided to leave calling the morgue until later.

Art was back to scowling. Everyone avoided him, accepting tasks without complaint and getting out of the office whenever possible. "Duck and run!" – Tim would yell every time someone grabbed a jacket and wallet and made for the door. A few of the braver souls would chuckle, most didn't dare.

Art summoned Tim with a finger snap around ten, motioned him to the conference room with Rachel.

"I want you both on this," he said, laying out a fresh bulletin and some papers. "These two are dangerous – shot and killed a trooper in upstate New York. One's got family in this area so we're on a list of possible destinations. I need you to follow up."

"Possible destinations? In other words it's a long shot they're even coming through here," said Tim, walking himself through the information provided. "Kentucky from New York?"

"This is a priority from Washington. You want to have that discussion with them?"

Tim made a show of checking his watch. "If I leave now, I might be able to catch the director before she heads home." He kept his face neutral, only a small tilt of his head to let Art know he was joking.

Any other week he'd get something out of Art – something like "Don't feel you have to hurry back," or "I'll call ahead and let them know you're coming to offer some suggestions on how to improve the running of the US Marshals Service. I'm sure they'll be happy to see you." But today Art just worked more at his scowl. Tim sighed.

Rachel's idea of damage control was volunteering herself and Tim to do the bullet inventory that Raylan never did get around to.

"We can have it done by lunch, Chief, and Tim's right, this is a long shot." She tapped the bulletin. "We can cover the contacts listed in less than an hour. We've got time."

Art considered the offer, nodded.

Tim opened his mouth to complain, got out the words, "Maybe if…" in a suitably sarcastic tone before Rachel threatened to cut his balls off right there at the conference room table if he said another word. Even Art looked afraid.

* * *

"I can't believe you said that to me."

Out in the hall, Tim tried his best to look shocked and hurt but Rachel wasn't buying it. She scowled almost as well as Art, waited until the elevator doors were closed to ask him what exactly it was he'd planned to say back in the meeting.

"I was just going to point out that we'd have fewer bullets to count if Art would just shoot Raylan and get it over with. He wants to, you can tell. Maybe I'd help him and knock a few more off the total."

"Oh, that would've gone over real well." She turned to face him. "What's your problem? Do you have to stick your foot in it every time?"

"My problem is it's_ not _my problem but everyone's making it my problem."

"These problems are part of your job."

"Really? Show me where it is in my job description that I gotta deal with the lovers' quarrel between my boss and his senior deputy."

"So ask for a transfer."

"I did."

It was Rachel's turn to look shocked, a little hurt too. "You did?"

"Art said no. He said he might be short soon, so could I please wait."

Tim had to give her a nudge out of the elevator when it stopped in the basement, doors open. Normally Rachel did everything at a bustling pace so her slow funeral march down the hall to the storage room was disconcerting.

"What?" said Tim finally, "What did I say this time?"

"I'm sorry you feel you had to ask for a transfer."

"I don't want to have to deal with Raylan's shit anymore. I got enough of my own to deal with. If I go, it's got nothing to do with you."

"I know." She was quiet again, stopped dead this time in the hallway. "If Art doesn't want you transferring, it's because he's already planning on transferring Raylan out."

"Well, that'd be one way to solve the problem."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Getting stuck doing bullet inventory bothers me. Honestly, at this point, I don't care how they solve it – I'd be happy if they'd just kiss and make up – but nothing I think or say or do is going to make any difference about it. Raylan's always done whatever the hell Raylan wants, and Art's my boss. I got no leverage here. So I might just as well say what's on my mind if I'm stuck in the middle of it." He took the keys from her and unlocked the door, held it open and waved her in. "Why don't you come with me? I'm thinking Hawaii sounds nice. Maybe the Honolulu office has a couple of spots open. You like surfing?"

Rachel's lip twitched and she chuckled finally, relaxing a little down in the basement out of view. "Hawaii does sound nice, but I don't know about seeing your skinny white ass in a swim suit."

"I'll get me one of those Speedos."

"Oh, God."

Tim stood in the middle of the room and surveyed the mess of boxes. "Why don't we just guess at the numbers? This is going to take hours."

"Your attitude, Tim, sucks."

"Right now, this job sucks."

"Amen to that."

* * *

A few hours later Tim was carefully lining up the last of the bullets into an open box.

"So that's 197 rounds I can use to shoot somebody in the face with that Remington 870 we got."

Rachel jotted the final number on her clipboard, shook her head. "Tim, do I need to report you and your gun fantasies to HR, get you put behind a desk for a while?"

"Only if I were likely to indulge in an _indiscriminate_ shooting spree. Could be a mistake though, assigning me desk duty if all my violent daydreaming involved a particular target…or two."

"Does it?"

"Maybe. I'm just saying, it might backfire when you consider how my desk is situated – right between Raylan and Art. You might just be handing me an opportunity to fulfill my homicidal fantasies."

"Are we done?" she asked, still shaking her head.

"We are done." Tim closed up the last box and set it neatly in its place. "I've got a sudden itch to visit a shooting range."

"How about a coffee shop and some lunch."

"I don't think I can fire off a box of rounds in a coffee shop."

"If you'd rather go straight back upstairs…"

"Lunch sounds good."

* * *

The afternoon was already planned out in Tim's head – a short conversation with the Atlanta city morgue and then some exploratory calls for the pair of fugitives wanted under federal warrant for murder one and grand theft auto. It sounded like the game to him, only playing for keeps.

Rachel delivered the bullet count to Art, and Tim settled behind his desk. He was dialing the morgue when Art yelled over, stopping him on the third number.

"Tim, in my office, please."

'Please' was worrying. Art never said _please_. Art always said _now_ – unless he was smothering anger in politeness. Tim scribbled the number for the Atlanta morgue on the front of an unrelated file and stood up.

Rachel delivered a verbal report passing Tim's desk. "Raylan was in last night."

"I thought he was on vacation."

She shrugged. "You didn't really believe that, did you?"

"I was hoping. Anyway, it explains the morning chill."

"He's caught up in something again. Art's agreed to loan him to the DEA so at least he's out of the picture for bit."

"Trepidation."

"What?"

"That's how you'd describe me approaching Art's office about now."

"He's not scowling so much. I think you're alright. I appreciate you trying to make me laugh, by the way."

"Not much else to do about it," said Tim.

A bull voice boomed across to them. "Now!"

Tim grinned, "That's more like it," retraced her steps and entered the cave. "Hey Chief, what's up?"

Art never could stop being in the interrogation room. "Been in Atlanta lately?" He didn't look up, going for casual.

"Why?"

There was some scrutiny from Art for the short and deflecting answer. "Got a call from the police – the Atlanta police." He said it 'poe-lease' like he was from Mobile or something.

A sudden jolt of emotions left Tim stunned. He had to sit down, let his legs carry him to the sofa in front of Art's desk. He sank into it, stared at the bad news he thought was coming.

"Don't you want to know why?" Art asked, surprised by Tim's reaction.

"No." Tim rubbed his face, kept it covered. "Yeah. What'd they want?"

"They found your card on a DB – a Deputy US Marshal card with the phone number for this office and everything. You're not bomb-dropping your card all over Atlanta, are you? Hoping they'll ask you to come work for them down there at their bureau instead of waiting for my signature? It was Atlanta you wanted, wasn't it?"

Tim was pulling bits of himself off the floor and piecing himself together.

"Tim, is there something I should know?"

"Nothing, Chief, seriously." Tim dropped his hands, made eye contact to reassure.

"Don't say that to me. I don't want to find out down the road that you've been involved in something when it's too late to do anything about it."

"Am I wearing a cowboy hat?"

"Oh, you're funny."

Neither of them sounded amused.

"So, Tim, you were in Atlanta."

"Yeah, this past weekend."

"Can you give me more than that, please?"

There was that 'please' again. "I was visiting a friend after I delivered that subpoena."

"What subpoena?"

"The one for Heywood Humphrey. I told you about it."

"Heywood Humphrey? That asshole in Georgia that's been such a pain in our behinds?"

"The same."

"Tell me you didn't go alone."

"I went alone."

Art slumped back in his chair. "I get the impression people don't believe me when I say 'don't tell me.' Am I saying it wrong?"

"It went fine. I did some hunting, delivered the subpoena, no bruises, no hospitals, no one shot but a deer, drove on down to Atlanta to have dinner with…" The hands came up again, pressing his fears back behind his eyes. "…a friend. Art, I got a bad feeling. Who's the DB?"

"He's a John Doe for now. They're trying to identify him. They want to talk to you, see if you can help them, wondered if you'd been mugged there or something."

"Mugged?"

"That's what he asked. They're pretty sure the victim's a vagrant. Tox came back with high alcohol levels."

"Can I take the day tomorrow, go down and see?"

"If it was your friend I might allow it, but it's clearly not. I need you helping Rachel with those two assholes who may or may not be in Kentucky. It'd be my ass if we missed them." Art focused back on the work at his desk. "You know how it is with these cases. The officer said they were doing a cursory investigation. It's probably no connection to you at all."

It was a dismissal. _These cases_ were rarely allotted much man power. No one misses the homeless, the disenfranchised. But Tim lingered. "Did he say how he died?"

Art peered at his deputy again, a little more scrutiny. "Knifing. That's all he said."

"Can I have his number? I'd like to contact him, get a photo, you know, just in case."

"I already asked. He said he'd send me what he had later."

"Okay." Tim still lingered.

"Get back to work. I'll let you know when it gets here."

"Okay." He stood reluctantly, eyes stuck on Art's computer monitor, dropped his gaze to the floor finally and shuffled out and back to his desk.

* * *

It was part of their relationship, a non-legal connection that Tim insisted on. Max carried one of Tim's business cards with him always. The call was something that sat in a corner of Tim's thoughts, an inevitable happening, sad in advance of the event. There was no changing who Max was though – he'd stay on the street and die on the street. Tim had offered to help him if he'd wanted it different but he didn't and so it was what it was.

Tim wasn't convinced that dying would be tragic for Max, wasn't convinced that it wouldn't be either. He waffled between the two extremes when he thought about his own life so how could he judge for someone like Max?

_Shut up and color,_ he told himself, slid the list of KAs for Rachel's case front and center on his desk and started making some calls. They were looking for a place to start looking for the wanted men. The idea was to call known associates, sound casual, try to catch something in the conversation, a stiff tone, an awkward reply. Tim had the casual down just fine, distracted thinking about Max, but almost missed the defensive wording from the fifth person he spoke to, almost forgot to underline the name on the list because Art stood up at that moment and waved to get his attention. Tim cut the call short, scribbled a note beside the name, tripped over his chair in his hurry to get to Art's office, get it over with.

Art had a hard expression on his face, scrolling through a series of crime scene photos. "Shit. This is not your garden-variety knifing over a bottle of whiskey or something. No wonder they bothered with the phone call." He turned when Tim walked up behind him, leaning over his shoulder to see. "You don't know this guy, do you?"

He'd been gutted, his fingers cut off and stuffed in his mouth, at least it looked like fingers. Tim hoped it was fingers. It wasn't Max.

It wasn't Max.

"Fuck." Tim stood up straight and dragged his hands down his face. "Fuck."

"So why is your card in the pocket of his jacket?"

"I put it there." Tim stumbled to the other side of Art's desk and slumped into a chair. "Fuck. I'll bet that's Phil. Shit, I gotta find Max and tell him." He pulled out his phone, looked up the number for the burner he'd bought for his friend, dialed. There was no answer. _The customer you are dialing is not available._ "Probably doesn't even have it turned on." Tim sat staring dumbly at the display.

"Who's Max and why does this guy have your card?"

"I gave Max my card, put it in _his_ pocket. Max gave his jacket to…," he gestured at the computer monitor, "…Phil."

"And how does Max know Phil?"

"They both live on the street."

"And how do you know Max?"

"Well, that's a whole other story."

There was no missing the personal attachment, the emotion Tim was trying to hide. Art wasn't going to shrug it off. "This thing with Rachel, get it done then come back and talk to me. As it happens, I have time today for a story." He pointed to his drawer, his stash, an invitation.

"Careful," said Tim. "That's how it started."

"What?"

"The story."

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

**Jigsaw – Chapter Five**

Rachel had neatly written notes beside two names on her list of KAs. She was putting on her jacket when Tim walked numbly out from Art's office, still thinking about the 'gook' that Max had mentioned, the one cutting off body parts.

"I've got two addresses on the top of my list," she said. "You?"

It took him a minute to get his mind back around to the day, the job. "Uh, just one."

"Grab your stuff. Let's go."

She waited until they were in the SUV to start prying. "So what was that all about?"

"Nothing really, just…"

In his periphery he saw her cross her arms tightly. There were plenty of secrets stealing through the office without adding another one, not enough communication anymore. Rachel seemed to feel it most, take it hardest, trying to be everyone's friend. It wasn't going to kill him, so Tim described Max for her, and the murder, then waited for the lecture.

There was no lecture. "You mean you look after him?" she asked.

"Not really. He looks after himself. I just replenish his supplies when I can get down to see him. I think I have a whole new appreciation for the guys in logistics in the military. Half the time when he tells me what he wants I don't believe him – I get him what I think he needs. But then I spend a weekend with him and I'm like 'oh, I get it, okay.' One time he asked me for some camouflage netting. I just figured he was stepping back into Army mode, you know, drifting." Tim spun a finger near his head. "But he needs it to hide himself when he sleeps, or hide his stuff when he goes to find a bathroom or get a meal. He can't carry all his shit around with him all the time. I tried to rent him a locker at the homeless shelter but he doesn't trust them there." Tim looked over at Rachel, met her smile. "I have no idea whether that's legitimate caution on his part or just plain paranoia."

"He sounds like a character."

"Yep."

"Is he a relative?"

"Nope."

She cleared her throat after a minute, waited.

Tim embellished. "He was a friend when I needed it. Bit of a rough patch when I was thinking of leaving the Rangers. I like him. I understand him."

Rachel nodded, and that was that. Then she got down to business.

"The first address is a former girlfriend. I always like the former girlfriend, so I'm making it our first stop. What is it about you guys that you think we're still pining for you even after we kick you out?"

Tim thought about Jo with the doofus, thought about a couple of his own ex-girlfriends. He didn't have any such illusions. They made it pretty clear where he stood when they dumped him. He'd never had any desire to see them again. He shrugged.

"Okay, so ex-girlfriend first. Then what?"

"A loose connection, a guy that did business with a guy that did business…you know. But there was something in the way he answered my questions – probably just nervous, guilty of something completely different. Why did you highlight this one?" She pointed at his sheet.

"I dunno, just a hunch. Shit, they're all linked to the car theft racket in some way, but that one guy, I thought I heard machinery in the background, shop type, metal on metal. Made him stand out. Figured if he was still in the business... Probably a waste of time." Tim looked over at Rachel. "You know we're just chasing our tails, right?"

"No doubt, but it's our job. You'd do well to remember that."

"How can I not? You keep reminding me."

"Are you pulling attitude again?"

"Why is it that you pluck my attitude out of the shit pile of attitude stinking up the office right now and smack me down? Am I your example?"

"No, you're the youngest. It pisses me off more coming from you."

"Uh-huh." She was looking smug out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't let it go. "They'll be offering you a chief's chair before you know it. You've got all Art's lines down pat. You're definitely ready."

"I'm ready for a little less attitude."

"I hope they offer you Anchorage."

"Even less."

"No can do. I have governors on my sarcasm. It can't go _less."_

He caught a smile from her.

* * *

The girlfriend was a bust. They could tell as soon as they pulled up to the curb. The bright blue and yellow Little Tikes car in the driveway parked beside the minivan with _Baseball Mom _on a sticker on the bumper suggested that she'd moved on and up. Two boys ran out the front door, jumped into the van and started a slapping fight. Tim felt he'd landed on a TV set, said as much.

"Some people do live a normal life, Tim."

Rachel told him she could handle domestic bliss without back-up, ordered him to stay put. She got out and headed for the house, intercepting the mother on the walkway, car keys dangling, yelling over to the boys to tone it down.

Tim could see from where he was sitting that the woman was shocked and amused and embarrassed by the questions Rachel was asking, each emotion vying for top spot. She was polite, trying to focus on Rachel, but the riot in the back of the van was growing louder, stealing her attention. Tim decided to intervene, speed things along so they could get going to address number two. He trotted over to the van, put both hands on the roof and leaned in the open side door.

"Either of you seen an alien in the neighborhood recently? 'Bout eight feet tall, green, smooth skin, big eyes?" Tim opened his wide to illustrate.

The question and the strange man stopped the brawl instantly. The two brothers stared; the braver of the two spoke.

"There's no aliens."

Tim frowned, eyebrows jumped once. "Shows what you know. I'm Agent T," he showed them his ID then waved behind him, "This here's Agent R. It's our job to hunt down aliens. You ever seen _Men in Black?"_

"Yeah."

"We were technical advisors on the set." He shook his head, huffed. "They got so much of it wrong."

"Tim."

He turned at his name. Rachel was looking at him funny; the mother was laughing.

"We're done here."

"Gotta go," he said to the boys then looked up at the sky and took a deep and anxious breath. The closer of the two kids leaned out of the van and looked up too.

Rachel grabbed Tim's sleeve and marched him back to the car. "Aliens? You'll give them nightmares for weeks."

"Nah, their mom will straighten them out."

"Who would you believe as a kid – a stranger with a gun and a badge or your mom?"

"So they'll have cool nightmares for a week and something to tell their friends."

"Some days, I wonder about your childhood."

"It was alright."

* * *

Rachel's second option was also a bust. She directed them to another address that wasn't one of her or Tim's top picks but it was on the way, a sort of mindless efficiency. They pulled up at the base of the driveway and Tim turned off the engine and freed a bag of beef jerky from his pocket. He waggled it in front of Rachel and she helped herself to a piece. The two sat ruminating on the snack and the day, eyed the house with low expectations.

"Got good curb appeal," said Tim. "I like the ripped garbage bag and the weed garden. Gives it that 'it's a comfortable place to live' feel, makes you think you could wear your shoes and your hat inside and nobody would care."

"Like your place?"

"Now who's got the attitude?"

There was a car in the driveway and the front door was open, the screen shaded so you could see through it into the hall and another room. Someone was home, there was movement inside.

Reaching into the back, Tim brought up a water bottle, unscrewed the lid and handed it to Rachel who took a good drink and handed it back. Tim took a mouthful too, and that's when the shit hit. The sound of two gunshots smacked the complacent out of both of them. It was followed by a third then a fourth. Tim spit some of the water on the windshield, surprised, scrambled for the door. They cleared the car in seconds, weapons out. Tim went right, around the back of the car to the side of the house, Rachel ran to the wall beside the front door.

"US Marshals," she called loudly while nodding at Tim to continue around back. "We're coming in. Put your weapons down, hands where we can see them."

Two more rounds went through the front screen, stopping Tim. He looked back, concerned. Rachel had her phone out, waved him on, so he turned and sprinted to the back corner of the house.

There was a lot of yelling coming from inside and it didn't sound friendly but at least it wasn't directed at the Marshals. It seemed they'd unwittingly stepped into a domestic.

Tim peeked around the back. A man's body lay sprawled on his stomach, head-first down the short concrete steps at the back door, trying to flee the house and the gunfire and not quite getting there. He was an impractical doorstop now, blocking the exit, his bulk holding the back screen wide open. Crouching out of view of the windows, Tim cautiously moved toward it. There were two gunshot wounds that Tim could see, one to the back of the head, another between the shoulder blades. The victim's face was turned toward Tim, and Tim recognized him. He was one of their two fugitives – unexpected but convenient. Not a domestic, then. Tim wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not.

There was a sudden spike in the ruckus from inside, more yelling, some colorful name calling and threats, and another man made a bid for a back door escape, trampling desperately over the first body. Two more shots stopped him before he could go more than a sad step further than the first man and he fell on top of the doorstop cadaver, lying in the same pose, face down. A Desert Eagle appeared next, coming out of the house well ahead of its owner, its fourteen inch barrel leading the way, pointed down at the second body.

Tim lifted his Glock to meet the new threat. "Drop your gun, now," he said evenly. "US Marshal."

The man swiveled quickly, twitched the fourteen inches of Magnum to follow his line of sight. Tim didn't hesitate – he pulled the trigger and hit his target, leaving the man no time to get a shot off, dead instantaneously. The body tried to fall backward but was stopped by the screen door still propped open. Tim watched as it slid along the screen and collapsed finally, face down too, and lengthwise, landing neatly on the top of the heap.

In the silent seconds following the last gunshot, Tim wondered what the odds were of that happening, of each body falling exactly the same way.

"Fuck me," he said.

Sounds from the house got him moving, Rachel inside now clearing the rooms, calling out for him. He did a quick check of the bodies for vitals, weapons, found only the one but it was enough. It wouldn't go in a pocket and the thought of slipping it into his jeans, front or back, seemed so ridiculous that Tim started giggling. He chose to just hang onto it, stepped awkwardly over the stack of dead and into the house.

"I'm coming in the back," he said loudly for Rachel. "Don't shoot me."

"Tim?"

"All clear to me."

She stepped into view, "All clear," and lowered her weapon. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

She eyed the neat pile of corpses at the back door, walked over to take a closer look. "What the hell happened? Did you stack them like that?"

"Hey, I know better than to move bodies."

"You're kidding, right? They stacked themselves up neatly like that?"

Tim shrugged.

"Jesus, where the hell did you get that?" The enormous handgun in Tim's possession distracted her from the unlikely crime scene.

"This?" He held up the Desert Eagle for her to inspect. "This is compensating for something." He pointed it carelessly at the top body. "I bet he's got a small dick."

* * *

Tim snapped a picture of the bodies with his phone. He didn't think anyone would believe the story otherwise. The first responders from Rachel's 911 call, LPD, sirens blaring seconds after Tim and Rachel met up in the house, they took photos too.

"Let's find some ID," said Rachel.

"Top down or bottom up?" asked Tim.

Rachel squatted and peered at the face at the bottom. "That's one of our guys."

"Yep."

"And so's the one in the middle."

"Uh-huh. But who's the guy with the…" He held up his pinky finger, wiggled it suggestively.

There was a wallet and a driver's license. "Carvill," said Rachel, reading. "Patrick Carvill. Mean anything to you?"

"The guy on the top of my list was Brian Carvill. Related?"

"Some coincidence if they're not."

* * *

Art was pleased with the news, despite the fact that it included one of his deputy's discharging a firearm. He gave them the first genuine smile that anyone had seen in a week. The office warmed up a few degrees. The Chief was on the phone with DC when Tim leaned in his door at the end of the day, his report finished and on offer. He had come for his drink and his talk about Max. He got an apologetic shrug.

Art covered the mouthpiece, whispered, "Good work, today. We'll have that chat tomorrow, if that's okay."

Tim nodded, dropped the report on Art's desk, waved and left.

Art knocked on his desk to get Tim's attention and Tim turned at the door and raised his eyebrows.

"Don't let me find out tomorrow that you ran down to Atlanta overnight to get involved in this. They're handling it."

Tim cocked his head but didn't respond.

He tried Max's number a few more times after he clocked out late, after stopping for some groceries on the way home. He sat alone in his kitchen sipping on a beer, lasagna warming in the microwave, wondering what to do about his friend. A trip to Atlanta seemed his only option. The phone rang as he was opening his second can. It was Rachel. It was bad news. The Lexington Marshals office was in shock, duties stripped down to crisis management. Tim blocked out anything else. Max was forgotten. The beer and lasagna were left on the counter. He collected himself and his weapons and star and was back in his truck heading to the scene of Art's shooting.

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

**Jigsaw – Chapter Six**

"You talking about any particular option?" Raylan leaned in to hear what Tim had to say.

"The one where we catch up with Darryl…out in the wild world."

"You'd be on board for that?"

"It's Art."

"And you think that's what he'd want?"

"I think he'd do it for us."

Tim made the offer. Lots could happen down in Harlan, face-to-face with Darryl Crowe, the man they were all sure held the gun and pulled the trigger. Tim was willing to hunt him down for questioning and see what opportunities presented themselves at the same time. He was certain that if Art had an idea who had shot one of them, if Art had a window of opportunity to slip between the law books and street justice and chase down a hunch, he would. There'd never be a blatant disregard for the law, but he'd risk bumping the rail driving too fast on an outside curve to make that window, get it done. Raylan disagreed.

"All due respect, Tim, I don't think you know Art as well as I do," Raylan said, turned and walked away.

Raylan's response disappointed. Tim stood wondering what it had to do with anything. He hadn't realized he was in a competition – 'I know Art better than you' – or that understanding someone was measurable or even important at this moment. It was a muddy world and there was an impassable and muddy distance between people. Even the view to the mirror was muddy.

He would've found Raylan's out-of-character dismissal laughably transparent any other day – it would have been worth some follow-up sarcasm. What was it Raylan always said? _A leopard don't change its spots. _But nothing trite was getting past the tightness in Tim's throat tonight, a tightness that strangled. There was a deep and disturbing hopelessness about it all. Tim knew the feeling well, imagined spitting it up on the floor and crushing it beneath his boot, kicking it under the nearest chair. He'd learned years ago not to let those kinds of feelings get in the way, not to let them trouble him when he was working.

Clearly though, something was troubling Raylan…still.

Whatever it was, Tim felt he and Rachel deserved to know. Okay, maybe not him, but Rachel definitely.

Whatever it was, Tim was convinced now more than ever that it was bad. Why else would Raylan suddenly be worrying about what Art thought was right. It had never occurred to him to bother before. Likely Raylan had been staring at an opportunity to slip between the law books and street justice but rather than aiming for the window, like Art would've done, he'd lined the wall with TNT and blown the thing to shit. It would explain a lot.

Whatever it was, Tim was still catching shit for it though it had nothing to do with him.

He let out a sigh.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, life in the military had given him plenty of practice taking shit for someone else's mistakes, more shit than Raylan could possibly dish out, more shit than this job could dish out. He could take it and still think clearly.

And thinking clearly meant not going alone to chase down Darryl Crowe. Ending up in the bed next to Art was no help to anybody. That particular option was shrinking fast into non-existence.

Another day then.

Tim walked back to the waiting area, making himself available.

* * *

He kept his head down the next day, kept his mouth shut mostly except to relay news. There was a time and a place.

"He called you a rat-faced little prick," said Raylan meeting Tim in the middle of the bullpen in a lull. He thumbed an explanation of who 'he' was, indicating the interrogation room where Tonin's former henchman, Picker, sat slow roasting. "He said scrawny, too."

"Well, I'm just thrilled he noticed me. Means I'm doing my job," said Tim. "Sticks and stones…"

"He's got such an easy name to play with. You think he'd be more careful about name-calling."

"Picker, pecker, pecker-head."

"Pecker-wood."

Tim ran a hand over his mouth and Raylan dropped his head, looked at his feet – fatigue and worry, worry and fatigue, and anger. Neither of them laughed. They split up, Tim to run errands, Raylan to meet with the murdering Crowe.

It was almost a relief when the kid walked in and confessed. It accomplished a thing or two whether you believed the signed confession or not – it got the Detroit bureau chief out of their hair, putting Rachel in charge and Tim was cool with her for a leader, and it put Darryl Crowe back in the wild world. Maybe now Raylan would go hunting, a double motivation, Kendal's exoneration and his own personal form of justice.

Tim stayed in view, making himself available.

* * *

Eventually it was clear to everyone that there was nothing left to do except worry. The skeleton crew still lingering at the office went out for a somber drink after the Detroit bureau chief departed for the airport. It was a quiet and supportive toast to Rachel in her new position. No one stayed for more than one – it was no celebration – Rachel went back to the office to try to get comfortable in her new chair, Raylan left to take a shift at the hospital to try to get comfortable with his guilt, and Tim went home to try and sleep.

It had been over thirty-six hours since any of them had seen a pillow.

It was never a good thing not remembering a part of the drive home – not enough sleep and that could be dangerous behind the wheel. Tim never got enough sleep though. He was always up early, rarely slept well regardless. Old habits die hard. He turned off the engine and just sat for a moment, enjoying the quiet, no bass blaring out of the speakers today.

_Bourbon._ The thought got him moving.

She stepped out of her door when he stepped out of his truck.

"Hey, Jo," he said, no more, no energy for it today.

"_Take a walk on the wild side," _she sang.

"Pardon?"

"_I said, hey, Joe, take a walk on the wild side. And all the colored girls go – do, do-do, do-do…"_ She trailed off, smiled sadly. "Lou Reed? Hello?"

Her prompting was met by an empty stare, no one home.

"Shit," she said, "I was hoping it wasn't someone from your office. I saw it on the news. I don't know much about Marshals but I'm guessing by the look of you that there's only one Lexington Bureau."

Tim pressed his mouth tightly, looked away. "Yeah, there's just us. It's not a big office."

"I'm sorry. You know him then."

"He's my boss."

"Oh." She walked down her steps and across to him, took him by the sleeve of his jacket, the way Rachel would, and pulled him to her place. "Come on – I'll make you dinner. I have cold beer."

"I think I'd like something stronger."

"I got that, too."

There were no quartz crystals in her house, just more glass tiles, boxes of them strewn around the living room and lining the hallway. She let go of his jacket once he was inside and went ahead of him down the hall, same layout only the mirror image of his house.

"Grab a seat," she called back.

Noises bounced down the hall toward him, Jo clinking around in the kitchen. He stood looking at the couch, his eyes dry and gritty, figured if he sat down somewhere comfortable he'd never get up again, so he explored the contents of the boxes in the hall instead, slipped cross-legged onto the floor in front of an interesting one.

She came back shortly and handed him a glass of something neat and he took a sip while he ran his fingers through some tiles that looked like frozen gasoline on pavement, a rainbow of iridescence captured and held on black.

"I have every color here, I think. Well, everything but pink. It's too expensive to work with."

"Why is pink expensive?"

"They have to use gold in all the reds, to get the color stable. Pink is the worst."

"Gold?" Tim blinked, digested that, couldn't make sense of it. "Real gold?"

"Real gold. Do you like him, your boss?" she asked.

Tim nodded. "Real gold," he said.

She sat down on the floor facing him. "Did you catch the guy that did it?"

He shook his head.

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"Too soon to tell." He took another sip of the liquor, squinted at it. "Is this Old Crow?"

"Yeah. Doofus bought it, thought it might make him a man – like whiskey has secret powers or something. I don't think he ever drank more than a sip of it. Is it bad?"

"Nah, anything's good tonight. Besides, Ulysses S. Grant used to drink it…supposedly."

"Which one was he?"

"Eighteenth." Tim kept an eye on the glass, like it owed him money. "Civil War general." He tipped it up and drank down what was left. _"__In every battle there comes a time when both sides consider themselves beaten, then he who continues the attack wins. _He said that. It's true."

"Are you in a battle?"

He looked at her then, eyes full of intent. "Maybe. We'll see. You got any more?" He waved his empty glass.

Jo got up and went to the kitchen a second time, came back with the bottle and a bowl of pretzels. "You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach."

She sat again to keep him company and he helped himself to some more whiskey.

"It's a bit sweet for my taste," he said, "but hey, it's got history. Hunter S. Thompson drank it. So did Mark Twain. It's got popular appeal – republicans and democrats alike. Maybe it should run for election."

"_I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."  
_

Tim shifted a bit, glanced toward the door then back at Jo. "Are you suggesting something? Look, I'm in law enforcement. Don't get out any drugs while I'm here, please."

She drew back, made a face. "I'm quoting Hunter Thompson. You got the republican, so I get the democrat. Chill, Mr. Marshal."

"Oh. Uh, sorry. I just thought…"

"Considering your day, I'll forgive you anything. When was the last time you slept? You look like road kill."

"Uh…"

"Look, go sit on the couch. I'll make us something – can't promise you gourmet though." She reached over and patted his shoulder, stood using it to push off of then grabbed some his jacket again and tugged up. "C'mon, boy."

He eyed the hand pulling at him, found the connection comforting though he stubbornly didn't move to please her. She gave up and he watched her walk away again, back to the kitchen. He considered her invitation, stood finally and peered cautiously into the living room then stepped across to the sofa and sank into it.

He woke at 3am, a blanket and a pillow and a stiff neck. Sitting up, he rubbed his face and contemplated the room. He was through the looking glass. It took a moment to get past the fog and remember where he was, what got him here, and when he finally put it together he collected up his holster and gun and phone from the side table where he'd set them and headed for the door. But a problem presented itself as he reached for the door knob – he didn't feel right leaving her house unlocked, didn't have a key and she was nowhere, probably upstairs in bed and he wasn't about to go looking. Five minutes breathing quietly in the hallway, thinking, and he decided he had no choice but to stay, so he kicked off his boots, slipped out of his jacket and threw it on a chair, dropped his stuff back on the table and flopped back down on her couch. Pulling the blanket over himself he lay awake until the sun came up and then he drifted off again.

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Probably making a mistake posting this before the season finale. The writers are likely going to mess with my timeline. Oh well, fan fiction, right? Yeehaw. Come on suspension of disbelief! Come on down... Alternate universes await you!

* * *

**Jigsaw – Chapter Seven**

"You alright? You did get home sometime last night and sleep?"

Tim had walked straight through the bullpen to Art's office. Rachel was standing behind the desk shuffling through papers, not willing to sit, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He noticed the red. She looked up when he spoke, the shock still settling on her face.

"I slept here." She nodded at Art's sofa.

"Oh, he'd love that."

She didn't respond.

"I'm going for teacher's pet," he said, walked over and handed her a coffee and a muffin in a bag, thinking she had the look right then of every officer dropped in his battalion fresh out of RASP staring at their first deployment as a Ranger. "We know our jobs, right. You just need to make the final call if there's one to be made."

Rachel turned her back on him and he left her, went to his desk.

Tim was second in if Rachel counted, though it seemed she was never out. He was up off Jo's couch and out the door twenty minutes after drifting off again. He didn't hear her awake upstairs as he unlocked the door, straight out to his truck, breakfast and coffee on the way to the court house. The rest straggled in after him, each wishing for a different day, a different reality.

Now it was time to lean, push all the buttons and poke all the players, slam fingers in doors, call bluffs and yank the rug out from underneath anyone associated with Darryl Crowe. It took most of the day to pull it all together, paperwork and permissions, warrants, finding an RV, a tow truck, getting the IRS on board, then a night of friendly visiting drawing all the corners in and tightening up the perimeters of the squeeze. There was only one focus for the Lexington Marshals, everyone aiming the same direction.

Boyd walked in, what they'd been waiting for, hands out acting the part he announced for himself, "Your savior has arrived," starting another long day of trying to net a shark but all they managed to catch was a minnow and some krill – young Kendal, and now Dewey Crowe up on murder charges. They all chewed on the frustration and exhaustion. Two full days and a night and nothing to show for it.

Tim was back at his desk digging through the piles looking for another route to Daryl, maybe not as the crow flies but anything that might stick, glancing up now and then at Rachel at her desk doing the same, at Vasquez gripping the back of a chair in the conference room trying to look calm and in control but desperately wringing the law books for something to hold Mr. Crowe on.

His phone rang, buzzing on his desk beside the keyboard, and Tim stared at it, not recognizing the number, answered finally, "Deputy Marshal Gutterson."

The voice wasn't familiar, female, tentative, "Is this Tim?"

"That's right, Tim Gutterson."

"Oh," relief. "I'm calling from Atlanta, for Max. He didn't know how to use his phone. Hold on and I'll…"

"Tim?" a familiar voice.

Tim shut out the room, swiveled around in his chair to face the window and leaned, elbows on his knees, hand up to his forehead. "Max? Shit, buddy, I've been trying to call you. Everything okay? You're alright?"

"They found Phil. The cops were around asking about him with a picture. I saw the picture. I told you, the gook got him, man."

"Yeah, I saw the picture too. They called me here."

"They asked about you. I didn't tell them nothing," said Max, all earnest.

"That's okay. They already know. You left my card in the pocket of that jacket you gave away. You're supposed to keep that card. You have another one?"

There was more rustling. Tim yanked the phone away from his ear, a noise coming across abrupt and sharp. "Max?"

More rustling, then, "Shit, dropped the phone."

Tim managed a lop-sided grin and a chuckle. It never crossed his mind that Max wouldn't know how to work a cell phone. But why would he?

"Max? You got another card, right? I'm sure I gave you one when we got your new jacket."

"Yeah, here it is. I got it. It's in my pocket, right here."

"Hey, buddy, listen, I'm sorry about Phil. That was a bad way to go. Anyone you know have any idea what happened? See anything?"

"No, man. He's sneaky, this guy, but I'm gonna catch the sonofabitch."

"No, you're not. Jesus. Don't do anything. I saw the whole report. That was some serious shit. Do me a favor and sleep in the shelters for a while, will you?"

"I ain't sleeping in no shelter."

"Max…"

"I ain't sleeping in no shelter."

Tim closed his eyes, pressed his lips tight. "Fine, just find someone to share a space with then. Don't wander around at night alone, okay?"

"I got my gear for hiding. I'm good."

"Max, you…"

"Oh, hot dogs," and that was it.

Tim heard some shuffling, the female voice again saying, "Max, you have to turn it off. This button here," then nothing. He pulled up the number and called it back – _the customer you are dialing is not available – _hung up with a growl, turned around to his desk and tossed the cell back beside the keyboard.

* * *

Boyd Crowder dropped his prize piece of information at their feet, at that point it was all he had left as leverage, his knowledge of Raylan's involvement in the death of Nicky Augustine. He revealed his hand but he also revealed his desperation – it wasn't just the Marshals staring at a dead end.

Rachel and Tim knew it for the truth when Raylan avoided looking at either of them.

Boyd thought he'd dropped a bomb. But Rachel was stoic in the face of the news, cool, gave nothing away, and Tim never did give a shit, especially not now, so he didn't have to act the part. It would've been the only good thing in an otherwise shitty day if he could've walked over and planted a fist on Boyd's smug face. Instead, Tim shared a look with Rachel, each reading the 'ah' in the other's expression, the fed-up-with-all-the-bullshit, thank-you-for-explaining-this-fucking-week-but-can-we-just-get-on-with-it deadpan stare.

"Can't really notice the black eye anymore," said Tim after Boyd collected his phone and his empty loot bag and walked out and Raylan strode purposefully into the conference room, angry, not looking back. Tim's comment showed his feelings about it, put a ranking on Raylan's indiscretion, settled it too for Rachel somewhere well below catching Darryl Crowe and messing with Boyd Crowder.

"Fuck," said Rachel softly, so out of character, staring at Raylan's retreating figure, then she laughed, quietly too, and dry and hollow.

Tim looked down at her, concerned. "You okay?"

"Explain something that I'm not understanding – why _wouldn't _Art want to retire?"

Pulling over Raylan's chair, Tim sat and faced her, didn't have anything to say.

"Tell me he's going to be okay," she said.

"Art's gonna be fine. I mean, shit, there's no way he's letting an opportunity like this pass. He'll come around tonight or tomorrow and lecture us all on the shit that's gone down this week. It's gonna be epic."

Rachel grimaced. "Fuck," she said again.

"Good day to start using that word. I'm going for a coffee. Get you one?"

"Okay."

* * *

Tim found himself at the coffee shop just down the block from the café where Jo was building the mosaic. There were closer places to the court house but his feet took over, led him to the Starry Night Café while his mind continued to turn over the problem of Darryl Crowe. When he finally decided to notice where he was, he was standing at the store front looking up at her work. It stole into his thoughts, the image of her picking at the cement dried to her hands, a web of black ink. It was already dark and the café was empty, still under renovation, and quiet.

"It's gonna be nice when it's done."

The owner of the shop one down was locking up for the night, noticed Tim staring up at the sign half-complete, spoke to him.

"Yeah." Tim turned back the other way, bought two cups of coffee and jogged the few blocks to the office.

* * *

He was the last one to hear the plan. Angry, Tim walked in on Raylan talking with Rachel in Art's office, shut the door, abrupt. "I'm only saying this in here, alright?" He gestured between the three of them then pointed back at the bullpen. "Out there's a different thing. I'm with you out there." He turned to face Raylan. "What the fuck are you doing? The kid's _fourteen years old!"_

"Tim, you know as well as I do that a crime involving a firearm for anyone fourteen or over is almost a guaranteed bump up to adult court."

"_If _there is probable cause to believe the juvenile committed the alleged felony…_if!_ We don't have probable cause here, Raylan – what we have is reasonable doubt." Tim looked to Rachel to back him on this. "We could've pushed to keep this in juvie court and you know it."

"You're right, Tim," she said, holding herself with both arms. "But it's done. Reardon has already signed off on it."

"Fuck." Tim turned in a tight circle, trapped. "Why didn't we just go after Darryl that day? We could've made something happen, Raylan, ended it then. Fuck, I should've done it myself."

"I won't do it like that."

"_Again,_ you mean."

Raylan gave Tim a warning look, stepped closer. "What are you saying, Tim?"

Tim shook his head. "You think _this_ is what Art would want? You think he'd rather this? I think he'd rather I just put a bullet in Darryl Crowe's _fucking_ head!"

"Do that now, and that kid does forty to life – guaranteed. We have a signed confession."

"You think I don't know that? Why the fuck do you think I'm so angry right now? There's no out for him unless this works."

"We got a chance here to do this by the book, legal."

"A chance, Raylan. _A chance. _Look what we're gambling with."

"It's legal."

Tim took a step forward, finished closing the distance, voice low. _"Fuck_ legal. It's not right."

"It's done." Raylan stood firm. "There is no discussion here."

Rachel stood up then, stepped between them, put her hand lightly on Tim's chest, said, "Tim, if you don't want to be a part of this, I understand…completely. You can take some vacation time while it plays out. I'll okay it – just say."

Rachel had a way of diffusing. Tim and Raylan both turned their attention to her, both took a long and steadying breath in. She managed to lay out each of their positions in three short sentences that seemed directed solely at Tim but encompassed them all. He admired her skill, offered her his.

"I'm not taking vacation time now. I'm here." He held Rachel's eyes for a moment. "Shit, I'm always here," he said, less heat, left as abruptly as he came in.

* * *

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	8. Chapter 8

**Jigsaw – Chapter Eight**

It was a day of pleasure and pain, equal doses.

Taunting Darryl, that was a thin slice of pleasure. That was all Tim could satisfy himself with since shooting him was no longer an option. He smirked when he remembered the load of bullshit he fed him when Darryl came to confront him on the street. _Sitting on a target for four days_ – like that ever happened. What they did to that guy though, the one in that village on that mountain in Afghanistan, that just might've happened. He'd pay to see the same look on Darryl's face that he saw on that guy, safe and smug in his house, opening his eyes in the dark in the night to the feel of the muzzle of an M4 lovingly kissing him awake. Surprise motherfucker. Your ass is mine. But that's all it was, only a thin pleasure knowing that Darryl could read the truth of that statement in Tim's face.

Knock, knock. Let me in for a snuggle, asshole.

And then some pain – some jarred bones and protesting muscles, a few bruises forming, a bit of blood, warm and sticky on the side of his face, that was what he was dealing with just now, that and a raging amount of frustration for losing Darryl Crowe, Jr at that light. He shook it off, tried too to shake off the blurry vision, stopped when it started to hurt sharply somewhere in his head. He sat still waiting for the scene outside the cracked windshield to regain proper proportion.

When his vision finally cleared he crawled through the glass to the passenger side door and climbed out, squatted beside the wreck and dropped his head between his knees, squeezed his eyes tight. Then he called it in and went to check on the other driver.

The paramedic was dabbing at the last cut and fitting a butterfly bandage on Tim's forehead when Rachel walked up, a quick glance for the tow truck operator eyeing the frame on the Suburban and wondering if he should call in someone with a half-bed and a winch.

"Jesus, Tim. You all right?"

"T-bone. I prefer one off the barbecue."

She looked back at the wreckage. "Yeah, but, are _you _okay?"

"Had my eye on fucking Darryl Crowe," he said, sliding past the question. "Should've looked left."

Rachel gave up. "Raylan's tracking down Darryl's sister."

Tim nodded, pissing off the EMT trying to hold his skin together.

"You feel up to a ride down to Harlan? Darryl may or may not be showing up at Ava's. A tip from Boyd. I don't trust him." She looked Tim over, looked to the EMT working on him and arched an eyebrow in question.

The man shrugged. "He might have a concussion. We should probably take him and the other driver to the hospital."

"I'm fine. Let's go." Tim hopped off the back of the ambulance and headed for the car.

Rachel thanked the EMT and followed, called to Tim's back. _"I'll_ drive."

He started feeling it as they crossed the Harlan County line, then another half hour later and it was a full-blown headache, a tightening across the shoulders and upper back, cranking the ache up to his skull, or maybe it was down from his skull. Not today – there was work to do.

"Fuck."

"You sure you're okay?"

He didn't answer, dug around in the glove compartment and found the ever-present ibuprofen, swallowed a couple as they pulled up at Ava's house.

It was with intense pleasure that he lined up the narcos, two shots each to ensure at least one round hit the central nervous system – no getting back up once they went down. _Outnumbered and outgunned?_ Please. The cocky bastards had it coming. It might've been enough to kill the headache if he'd had the opportunity to put a bullet between Boyd Crowder's eyes to round off the day. Instead, he had to watch him walk out the door. That was painful. He was getting tired of watching people walk out the door. It was one of the things about this job that sucked.

When he broke down a door, he didn't expect the guy behind it to be able to walk freely out of it later.

* * *

Rachel made the announcement to the bullpen. It was received by another round of cheering not long after the news that Darryl Crowe, Jr. was well and truly dead and the boy's confession tossed in the trash. This round of clapping wasn't accompanied by grim faces but unrestrained grins, genuine good news – Art was awake and on the mend.

It was a pleasure to be right, even if it was just a wild-ass guess yesterday, an attempt to lighten Rachel's day.

"Told you so," said Tim when Rachel walked past his desk.

"What do you know?" She was grinning herself.

"How's Leslie?"

"Relieved. I'm going over. Why don't you come and we'll get you looked at properly?"

"I'm fine, but I'll come along, get the lecturing over with."

"Tim, you've been chewing on pain killers since the accident."

"Not sure you could call my reckless driving an accident."

"You were tired."

"Fine, make excuses for me. The headache is whiplash by the way, that's all, not a concussion." Tim shrugged stiffly into his jacket as he spoke, followed Rachel out.

"Oh, so you're a doctor now?"

"Uh-uh, just intimately experienced with the difference. I've had both."

Rachel stepped onto the elevator and turned, gave Tim a funny look when he paused holding the door. "What?" she said.

He inclined his head to the empty spot beside her. "I didn't know you had a twin. Aren't you gonna introduce me?"

"You are so funny." She didn't sound amused.

"I try."

"We'll be at a hospital. You can say hi to Art but then you take your sorry ass down to Emergency and get it looked at."

"My _ass_ is fine."

She leaned back, peered around him, had a look. "It's okay."

Tim slumped against the wall of the elevator, rolled his eyes. "Oh my God, I hate it when you're in a good mood." Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of ibuprofen and downed a few more.

Rachel was watching. "I'll escort you at gun point if I have to."

"Are you trying to turn me on? You've been talking sexy all day."

"For me, there is no _trying,_ so you can rest assured that I'm not."

Tim blinked, wide grin. "I like you this way."

"Grow up."

* * *

The hospital room was too crowded to be restful, so Tim and Rachel bowed out when Raylan arrived.

"Catch up with you later."

From Raylan, "catch up with you later" meant "see you at the bar." Tim was definitely up for that, a "yep" in return as he walked out of Art's hospital room. It would be a celebration this time.

Rachel went with him down to Emergency, dogging him all the way into an examination room to make sure he actually saw a doctor. She waved her ID around to get him bumped up the queue and they were out quickly and headed to meet Raylan.

Tim got to say it twice in one day. "Told you so."

"You don't get to say that."

"Why not? _She_ said whiplash. _I_ said whiplash. Told you so."

"She also said 'mild concussion likely'. Don't think I wasn't standing right outside the curtain eavesdropping. And you lied to her."

"When?"

"She asked how many of those," she pointed to the bottle of pain killers hidden in Tim's jacket, "you had since the accident and you lied. You said four."

"That's close."

"And now you're going to have six or seven drinks."

"Or eight, I have to disguise the slurred speech from the concussion."

She huffed, shook her head.

"Hey, I know the symptoms."

"Then you know that headache is at the top of the list."

"Your twin doesn't say much. She shy?"

They had arrived at the car. Rachel pointed at the passenger side. "Get in."

* * *

Raylan was already there waiting. He signaled a round when he saw them at the door, set his hat on the table when they joined him. It was familiar and comfortable. Nothing was said until the drinks came and they'd each started in on their whiskey. Raylan lifted his hand again to get the waiter's attention for a second round, not letting the action interrupt finishing the first.

"Should I order one for Art?" asked Raylan, setting his empty glass on the table and gesturing at the vacant seat.

"If you do, I call dibs," said Tim, his glass already empty too.

Raylan eyed the younger Marshal. "We good?"

Tim knew what Raylan was asking – didn't really think it needed asking. "At least till tomorrow."

"Excellent."

The next round came and they toasted silently, the bar noises tugging them gently down into lethargy, the alcohol lubricating the slide. Rachel was just sipping now, careful, still on her first glass; Raylan waved over to the bar again, languid, two fingers up.

"So, looks like I'm heading back to Miami," he said after another pause.

Tim shuffled in his seat, looked over at Rachel and could see she knew too. "Yeah, we heard."

"How did you hear when I just heard?"

"Try listening. It works for me."

Rachel sat up, interrupting them before they got into it. She leaned forward and turned to look at Raylan. "Is it what you want?"

"I think so. I never wanted Kentucky in the first place – not that I haven't enjoyed working with you. And I'll get to see my daughter."

Tim pushed his chair back and dropped his head on the table. "Yeah, that's always been a priority for you," he said on the way down.

Raylan watched him. "Don't tell me you're tired, Tim. How is it they let you into the Rangers if you wear out this easy?"

"Kept my mouth shut and got the job done. That and I always knew where my Ranger buddy was."

"You? You kept your mouth shut?"

"They didn't leave me enough air in my lungs for talking."

"Is that the trick? Rachel, we need to work him harder."

Tim ignored the jab. "I think I also passed my psych eval with flying colors."

"_You_ passed a psych eval? What in hell were they looking for?"

"Team mentality. You want me to spell that first word for you so you can look up the definition?"

"I thought for sure they were looking for assholes if you passed."

Tim grinned. "Well, for sure they were looking for folk predisposed to enjoying _shooting_ assholes. I'm getting lax since I left. You're still breathing."

Rachel relaxed back into her seat, sipping slowly on a second whiskey that she wouldn't finish, brown eyes smiling. It was familiar and comfortable.

* * *

Tim let Rachel drop him off at home afterward. He thought it best to leave his truck in the parking lot at the court house overnight. Jo was on her step when they pulled up, taking out some garbage. She looked up, recognized him and waved. She was wearing one of those strappy tops.

"That's your neighbor?" Rachel was leaning around him, lips pressed tight and twitching, watching the faded and torn jeans and tight strappy top disappear inside. "Down, boy."

"She's not my type," said Tim, narrowed his eyes at her. "She bikes to work…like fucking every day."

"That's kind of cool. I like her for that."

Tim thought it was cool too, but a bit odd. "I'll get you her number – you two can hook up."

"Uh-huh."

He let it sit there, didn't take it up. "See you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride."

"Not a problem. I'll pick you up in the morning."

"All right."

There was a hint in the air, warmer weather coming, the jacket seemed too heavy tonight and he slipped it off ambling up the walk. He realized too late that he should've had something to eat at the bar, there wasn't much in his fridge that wasn't drinkable only, cupboards neglected. The headache was back and the hunger wasn't helping. At the top of his steps, key out for the door, he stopped, turned and headed back down, across the strip of grass and up to Jo's door. He knocked and waited listening to the music pushing through the screen. He shouldn't have been surprised considering she'd already thrown some Jimi Hendrix and Lou Reed at him, but the blues riffs coloring the night seemed at odds with the girl. He decided then he'd better stop assuming. He pulled out his wallet and from it a credit card, tapped it on the door frame when she walked up.

"Chinese? My treat."

She was standing there in her strappy top holding a bottle of beer, her very short dark hair a neglected mess. Tim started rethinking what his type was.

"I prefer spring rolls to egg rolls," she said, eyes focused on the cut across his forehead. "I thought I should warn you before you came in."

"I like everything that's the least authentic Chinese."

"Sweet and sour chicken balls?"

"My favorite. Just saying it's fun."

"We're good then. I'll get a menu."

She had a bottle opener in her other hand, pried the lid off the beer and handed it to him and he accepted it and stepped in when she turned away, walked back the way she came. He followed her.

"Did you get him?" she said, shuffling through a drawer in her kitchen.

"Not me, but somebody did."

"How's your boss?"

"Better."

She smiled for him and slid a menu across the counter then went to the fridge to replace the beer she gave away. He phoned in the order, stopped halfway through giving the address to add three more dishes just to be sure.

Later, after the feast, Jo dropped a pair of extra-strength generic brand pain killers into Tim's hand, watched him take them with some beer.

"You shouldn't drink alcohol with those."

"I don't do it often."

"Yeah, sure. Did you get in a fight?" she asked, slipped onto the couch cross-legged beside him, turned to face him.

He looked sideways at her. "You should see the other truck."

"Car accident?"

"Some stupid fucker ran a red light."

"Did you give him a ticket?"

Tim snorted. "We don't give traffic tickets. Besides, I was the stupid fucker that ran the red light."

Sitting so close to him like she was, shoulders bare, she was fast becoming his type. He wet his lips.

"Shit," she said, watching him. "I was hoping to take a break from this."

"From what?"

"Men."

She untangled her legs and straddled him, settled on his lap, and he relaxed with it, slid his hands up her jeans, pulled on her belt loops, tucking her tighter on his hips. It was a good fit. She let out a breath, still watching him.

The song ended and a new one started up, more blues. It was hypnotic, or maybe the weight of her on his legs was. His voice was gruff. "What're we listening to?"

"You like it?"

"Yeah."

She leaned in and just barely brushed his mouth with her lips, then kissed him on the second pass, lingering this time. He let his tongue drift across her lips and hers peeked out to greet him, a moment, then she sat back, laughed once, answered his question, "They're playing our song. It's _Next Door Neighbor Blues_. Gary Clark, Jr."

"Great, another fucking Junior."

She sang along, a little gravel worked into the timbre for the tune, _"Came home last night with a pistol pointed at my head. __Came home last night with a pistol pointed at my head. _ She said you better 'fess up boy, or I swear I'm gonna shoot you dead."

Definitely his type. "Do you want to go upstairs? I don't want to sleep on the couch again," he said. "And I don't think I'm going to be awake for long."

"Oh? Thanks for the heads up." She slid off his lap and pulled him to his feet and up to her bedroom, left the music playing.

_Pain and pleasure,_ he thought. _What a fucking day._

* * *

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**Author's Note:** Gary Clark, Jr. on a resonator, new favorite. Austin blues for the 2nd battalion, 75th regiment. Check it out on YouTube: watch?v=KgtcrkI7R58


	9. Chapter 9

**Jigsaw – Chapter Nine**

Tim woke up thinking about Max. There was a crescent moon lending a sliver of light to the room through the drawn curtains and he lay still letting his eyes adjust, getting the layout of her furniture. He knew she was there without looking, her breath dusting his shoulder in the slow rhythm of sleep.

He turned his head and studied the lines of her, her arm up under the pillow, on her side turned toward him. He would only have to shift the tiniest bit to connect with her, so he did. She was warm. He recalled a promise he'd made to himself, pretty sure it was him, to avoid getting involved with anyone for a while. The last hook-up-turned-dating-thing had evolved into a relentless effort on that woman's part to remold him into her idea of a man. The result was an ugly deformation that revealed the worst in him and he was an asshole to her, but she had earned it, and she screamed names at him that he definitely deserved and it was a while before he felt like himself again.

And now this…this thing with Jo, this was probably not the best idea, but how was he supposed to walk away when she was sitting on his lap.

Dating a neighbor was practically like dating a co-worker.

His body betrayed him, Tim Gutterson's very own personal civil war – he was getting hard looking at her, thinking about her touches last night, even while he tried to convince himself to collect his shit and get the hell out. He slipped a hand across the space underneath the sheets, dragged his fingers lightly up her belly and down her thigh to the back of her knee and he pulled her over closer and she woke up and mumbled something and wiggled to help him, draping her leg over his, her hand moving down from the pillow, along his face and on down his chest to his stomach, her nose bumping his, lips finding lips, and the battle was lost.

_Next Door Neighbor Blues_ was up again on the rotation on the iTunes playlist downstairs, catches from it weaving their way distantly through the ceiling and into the bedroom, just barely there.

The sun still wasn't up when he woke the second time, more relaxed than he'd been in months. He was thinking about Max again and decided to do something about it. Max, like Tim, didn't sleep that well. Maybe he'd answer a call.

Tim sorted arms and legs from the pile until he'd freed himself, slid gently off the bed and gathered up his clothes in a bundle and walked softly down the stairs. He dressed in the kitchen and found his phone and dialed his friend.

No answer. He wasn't really expecting one. Today was Friday; tomorrow he'd head down to Atlanta and give Max lessons on cell phone usage.

Flicking on the kitchen light he rummaged around the cupboards finding the supplies he needed to start a pot of coffee. He still didn't have a key to Jo's place and he didn't feel right leaving her alone at four in the morning, asleep with the door unlocked. He slipped next door and grabbed his laptop, his WiFi working just fine through the walls at this distance, skimmed the news and read through a forum on rifle ammo sitting at her kitchen table until the sun came up.

* * *

The clock showed six when he finally shut his laptop and left, pulled Jo's door shut quietly and went to his house for a shower and clean clothes. Eager to start the day and finish the administrative pile-up from the past week, Rachel texted at seven, came by early to give him a lift to work and Tim didn't keep her waiting.

"Leslie just called," she said, tucking her phone back in her jacket. "She wanted to warn me that Art actually got out of bed early this morning, walked around the room a bit."

"Warn you? I don't think we have anything to worry about – four bodies and two service vehicles in the shop. That's nothing."

"That's more than the last year, and they're talking about writing-off the Suburban. You don't do things by halves, do you?"

"I liked that car – it was a comfortable ride."

They stopped for breakfast, bagged it to go. Rachel was distracted and Tim let her be – he was relaxed. The elevator ride was quiet.

"You look better this morning," she said, let him be the gentlemen, hold the door for her into the office.

"I had some sleep…in a bed." He walked past her to his desk.

"Vasquez called last night."

Tim stopped and turned. "Didn't take long for him to get you on speed dial."

"He wants to go after Boyd Crowder."

"Again?"

"I'm going to ask Raylan to stay and help with it."

"Interesting choice of words – 'help' – sure you don't mean _run_ with it, like off the reservation?"

She shrugged one shoulder coyly but replied straight at it. "Are you okay working with him still? You two have had your differences."

"The enemy of my enemy and all that…" He waved it off. "I'm good."

"He said basically the same thing to me once. Said he didn't trust your mouth but you tended to keep it closed when you had a gun in your hand and he liked you best when you had a gun in your hand."

"I like Raylan best when he has his hat in his hand. Doesn't happen often enough. I think he's got the best of it. I have my gun in my hand a lot."

"I miss Art," said Rachel, a wistful sigh. She took her coffee off the tray, her breakfast from the bag and walked into the Chief's office, pulled a chair up to the door side of the desk and started sifting through the pile in the inbox.

They were all playing catch-up now, everything pushed to the side for the pressing matter of catching the man who held the gun and pulled the trigger and put Art in the hospital. Now that Darryl was dead the back-slide of work couldn't be ignored. Tim booted up his computer to start sifting through three days of neglected email, flipped through the phone message slips sitting in a pile on his desk while he waited. One from Atlanta homicide caught his eye and he set it aside to call back at a decent hour and the rest he ordered by importance. The Marshals Service had a hierarchy for fugitives and there were tasks that needed doing as part of the routine of the job.

First order of business was a cold-bore test for his SOG qualification that he had to do before month end – not a problem but it had to be done. He doubted they'd kick him off his sniper duties if he was a day or two late since he was one of the few in the area or on the SOG teams with night shooting experience or reliable accuracy beyond 500 meters, but the lawyers would be on someone's ass if they found out he hadn't logged it and had it witnessed and signed. So a trip up to the State Police training academy in Frankfort before lunch was now on his schedule – a good kind of mindless today, that trip, went well with the stiffness and the aches from yesterday.

Usually he'd get Art to come with him to a local range, sign off that Tim could hit the center of a target with his rifle clean and cold out of the case. It wasn't hard – he knew his weapon, knew his trade, knew how to compensate that first shot though it wasn't really an issue at the short distances required of him as a Marshal. It was a relaxed and controlled atmosphere, no stress at the range so he_ never_ missed. They would make an outing of it. Tim would watch Art fire off a few three-shot groupings and he'd give his boss tips on his form and then they'd have a coffee on the way back, talk about the job, the military, firearms, hunting. Going up to Frankfort alone wasn't nearly as much fun.

After Frankfort, he figured he should find Jo over lunch, tell her, as nice as it was, he couldn't do this.

He got up with his coffee and walked into Art's office to let Rachel know his plans, at least the part about the trip to Frankfort, stepped around the chairs and leaned against the desk facing her.

"You know, it'd be easier to get to the keyboard if you were in the chair on the other side."

"You know, you'd never lean on the desk like that if Art was here."

"He doesn't sit on this side. Walking around and leaning on that side, that would be weird, all up in his personal space, kind of like flirting."

"Are you flirting with me then?"

"No. I'm telling you my plans since you're in charge. Besides, I don't think I'm subtle enough for flirting." He thought about it, shook his head. "Nope. I wouldn't know how."

"Take lessons from Raylan before he goes. He's got that flirty smile down to an art."

"Speaking of Art, I think even he'd be better at flirting than me. I had a girl once tell me not to smile. She said it just came across as threatening."

"Oh, I've seen a genuine smile from you – not at all threatening. You look about six when you do it."

"Great flirting potential there."

"If she was a daycare worker."

He grinned.

"See?" she said, pointed at him with her pen, "Six years old."

"Why don't you move around to the chair? Art might not even come back to this office. You know that, right? Not this close to retiring."

Rachel looked across the desk to the Chief's chair, frowned. "Not yet." Her voice was barely there.

"All right. Anything you need me to do before I go?"

She stared at the piles of paper. "I'll let you know."

He walked out feeling a twinge of melancholy. It's never the same after the first time someone you know gets hurt. It can't be.

The homicide detective in Atlanta wasn't available so Tim left a message and replied to a few emails before retrieving his rifle from the locker and heading to the parking lot. He was in the hall when he remembered the Suburban was out of commission, went back to see the administrator and sign out a different car.

The one-way streets around the court house in Lexington made it convenient for him to pass by a particular coffee shop on the way out, the one that kept biggie-sized cups on hand for caffeine-addicted customers like him, decent strong coffee to pour on demand. He set it into the cup holder in the car and took another turn and drifted slowly past the Starry Night Café. Jo was out front working. He noticed the construction boots for the first time, grinned at the figure she cut in her overalls and sweatshirt, hiding all the soft places he'd explored last night. He slowed down then pulled in at the curb across the road, sat and watched her climb down her ladder and step back to the edge of the sidewalk to get a view of the whole mural. It was taking shape now, the circles of yellow and orange, irregular, their unevenness and imperfections making them more beautiful, set off by the darker hues of the background, the midnight blues and blacks, some mauve and brown, a single spire jutting up, dark. She wiped the back of her arm over her face to clear her hair back from her eyes then dropped both hands to her hips and tilted her head, thinking.

She had his phone number. It was on his card; he gave it to her this past weekend. She hadn't called to find out when she'd see him again. He was surprised she hadn't called. He realized he wanted to touch her. It was that simple.

She turned when she heard the car door shut, waved and grinned and loped over across the road, stopped short, a few feet between them.

"You came to break it off, didn't you?"

He nodded an affirmative then took a step toward her, a tug. "Yeah." He looked across the road to the mural, avoided eye contact.

"Well, you can if you want to. You didn't leave anything at my house so that makes it easy." She turned away.

"Hey, Jo…"

"I've run clean out of songs with that lyric, Mr. Marshal." She twisted to look at him, an easy smile. "That was nice last night, by the way. Thanks."

"Are you gonna be here? I mean, later. I'm working but…"

She strolled back, hands in her pockets, covered the last of the distance between them, right up against him and jammed her nose into his shoulder, into his neck, tilted her head and kissed his chin, then up another inch and bit his ear. He slid his hands around to her back, inside the overalls and under her shirt and kissed her on the mouth, hard.

_Shit, _he thought, _this isn't working._ He settled her back at arm's length before his body could convince him to blow off the morning and take her home. "Van Gogh," he said, clearing his throat, nodding at her mural. "Van Gogh, right?"

"Yep."

Her amused look wasn't lost on him.

"Fuck off," he said. "I'm not an art student."

"But you are a guy. Yes, van Gogh. He lost an ear, you know."

"His girlfriend bite it off?"

"You said _girlfriend._ That's a word with lots of baggage. You want to be careful throwing that around." She grinned, made it look easy like she always did. "Some say he cut off his own ear – got some crazy going on. Some say he was being a gentleman and lost it in a fencing dual with Gauguin over some prostitute."

"Huh."

"That's one possible reaction to a dramatic story." She was making fun of him again. "What do you want, Tim?"

"Can I buy you lunch?"

"Why don't you pick up something and we'll sit on your bench? I don't want to have to clean up. Takes too much time."

"Sure, okay."

She nodded, watching him. "I don't need you, but you fit in my world just now if you want it."

He didn't know how to respond to that, studied his boots. "What time?"

"For lunch? Doesn't matter. Whenever you're free. I've got another tiling job starting Monday so I'm going to get as much as I can done on this today and tomorrow and Sunday."

"I should be back in a couple hours."

"Where're you going?"

"Gotta do a rifle qualification up in Frankfort."

"A what?"

"I'll explain at lunch if you really want to know."

She reached over and poked him gently with a finger, managed to hit a bruise. "I wanna know."

"Ow."

* * *

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	10. Chapter 10

**Jigsaw – Chapter Ten**

Tim figured sooner or later he'd end up full-time down in Louisiana, handling training at the SOG headquarters at Camp Beauregard. They asked him every year. Originally he'd planned to avoid it, thought the complete change of career from Ranger to Deputy US Marshal might be enough to distract him from the things he missed about his time with the regiment, and it did for a while, but he was beginning to feel the frustration of the constraints put on him by the Marshals Service. He understood it, but it jarred like a weapon malfunction – you've got the target in your sights and you know he's yours and you press the trigger and nothing the fuck happens. Maybe full-time at tactical wouldn't be a bad thing.

At least they let him have a rifle, and he was usually the one that got the call in the office when there was a situation, a raid or someone needing backup. No one there had more experience getting shot at than he did.

He volunteered for the Special Operations Group as soon as he was able. The twenty-seven day training course, designed to test the hopefuls' mental and physical toughness, went by quickly. He dubbed it the Ranger Indoctrination Program _Lite_, but never out loud, waltzed through it with the added advantage that they were teaching very little that was new to him. Breaching, helicopter insertion, close-quarters battle techniques, precision shooting – that was regular training back with the regiment. The Marshals running the course stopped paying any attention to him after awhile, leaving him alone to help the other candidates when they were having problems, and they let him test for a sniper position at the end of it, welcomed him with open arms to the teams. He had what they wanted and he came pre-packaged and fully-assembled.

Sitting behind the line at the outdoor shooting range in Frankfort, waiting for a spot to open, Tim thought about his days with the Ranger regiment, thought about what it would be like to do the selection program again if he decided to reenlist. He knew he could do it, tighten up and get through the eight weeks of RASP – he was sure he could – but he'd have to want it badly to go back to day one of that hell. They couldn't take away his Ranger tab, but that regimental scroll, that baby expired, and for good reason. He'd have to earn it again and it would hurt. It wasn't like he was eighteen anymore.

The Kentucky State Police Special Response Team was practicing on the range today and Tim watched them putting their AR-15s through a shooting routine. When the team was finished, Tim walked over to the range officer and explained what he needed and set up and made his shot and got the nod then he followed up with some more shooting since he was there anyway, satisfyingly tight groupings that got the attention of the men still talking behind him. Tim probably spent more time at the range keeping up his skills than the rest of the Lexington office combined. It was important to him.

He chatted a bit with some of the SRT members while he diligently filled out his data book, some good-natured ribbing between them.

"Didn't know the Marshals had rifles."

"Let alone someone to shoot them."

"Oh, there's always someone willing to shoot us," said Tim, purposely misunderstanding.

"Shit, he didn't mean nothing by it." The range officer had walked up with the paper and signature for Tim. "We all know about your Chief. How's he doing?"

"I didn't take it wrong, don't worry. And he's recovering, thanks."

"I hear you got the guy that shot him."

"We should've, but it wasn't us."

* * *

"I don't get it," she said, her mouth full of sandwich. "Why do you have to do the qualification with a cold rifle?"

"The bad guys don't let us take practice shots. Go figure."

Jo went very still. It was a brief reaction but Tim caught it in his periphery.

"You _actually_ shoot people?"

"Sometimes they just don't get the hint when we _show_ them the gun, they make us pull the trigger. Maybe they honestly think we don't know how to use it."

She turned her head to stare at him, the uncertainty on her face obvious.

"Wasn't me that shot Bambi's mother," said Tim, hands up, playing at defensive.

She didn't look like she believed it, any of it, leaving nothing to believe. She laughed through another mouthful. "I can't tell when you're joking."

"I never joke."

"See?" She finished her lunch and brought both legs up onto the bench so she could face him, touched on the morning's subject. "So are you free tonight?"

"Nope."

She looked disappointed, but just for a moment. "I guess I'm going to have to watch _Sons of Guns_ by myself."

"Like you fucking watch that show." Tim had given up on the idea of not seeing Jo again, it was just too much temptation and he decided to follow it wherever it went. "No, I'm pretty sure I got plans with my neighbor after work."

"Assuming a bit?"

"Admit it, you got no life other than work."

"Well, imagine! We actually do have something in common."

Tim grinned like a six-year-old. "I'm sick of take-out, so I was thinking…steak?"

"I like mine rare."

"I can do that. What d'you wanna do after?"

And there was that amused look again. "Cold-bore qualifying?"

The heat spread from the center out and he covered his face chuckling, tried to cool off by remembering how he felt midway through Ranger school – miserable. That did it, mostly. "It takes on a whole different feel the way you say it."

"Have you seriously shot somebody before?"

"That's a bit like asking somebody if they're a virgin."

"I'm not a virgin."

"I wasn't asking. Will how I answer affect how much I get to see of you tonight?"

She paused before answering, tilted forward toward him and whispered, "You are so not my type."

"Funny, I keep thinking the same thing about you."

He watched while Jo stood up and stretched then folded her arms tightly, her back to him. He waited and eventually she turned around to face him. She leaned over and put her hands on his shoulders and kissed the cut on his forehead, then his nose and then his lips, putting some of last night into it until he could feel the heat building again. She straightened back up and left him sitting there, walked across the street to get back to work.

He was a little uncomfortable driving back to the court house.

* * *

Tim saw the grenade drop on the hood of the car as he pulled into the parking lot, watched in slow motion as it bounced, a glimpse of a second one rolling underneath out of sight. He jammed his foot hard onto the accelerator and prayed. The grenade caught the front windshield, the momentum carrying it up and over, along the roof and down onto the trunk before it exploded. Tim threw himself down sideways as the car lurched ahead, hoping the seats might provide some protection from the shockwave and the shrapnel. They detonated one right after the other, blowing out the windows and sending sharp projectiles in every direction.

The short concrete wall surrounding the parking lot stopped the car, the impact blowing the airbags, but the distance traveled was just enough to put the worst of the damage from the explosions into the back of the vehicle. And if the sound of the blasts hadn't gotten the attention of everyone in the court house, the car alarms screaming immediately after certainly did.

Shards of metal from the grenade shredded the airbags, dug into the car's trunk and roof and panels, ripped the headrests off their posts and chewed into the seats and through to skin. Slowed down by the upholstery they were only painful not lethal. Tim fought his way out the passenger side door and fell to the pavement along with a shower of broken glass, dazed, fumbled for his sidearm.

"Fuck!" He let it out in a scream but couldn't hear a thing except ringing.

The security guard at the Marshals' entrance got to him first. He was met by the muzzle end of Tim's Glock and threw his hands up and backed away quickly. Flames burst from the rear of the car and Tim scrambled in a three-legged crab-walk nearer the front and up against the low concrete wall, straining to hear anything, eyes wide open and scanning for threats. He adjusted his grip on his gun, his hands now slick with blood. A familiar Stetson came into view, mouth working beneath it but no sound coming out. Raylan ignored the Glock, yanked Tim to his feet and pulled him out from beside the car, away from the fire, the heat flaring up as they passed. He half dragged Tim toward the back of the court house and let him go when he was satisfied they were clear of danger and Tim slid down the wall that he was propped against, slid his gun back in the holster. He thought it strange that the fire trucks arrived without their sirens on.

Rachel crouched in front of him, lips moving, questions probably. No answers. Tim just shrugged, covered his ears and said, "Fuck," again. "Fucking grenades," he said. He caught the words on her lips this time. _Stop yelling. _He grinned, buzzing, said, "Fuck," once more, whispered, dropped his head back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

An ambulance came and Rachel helped him into it and it took him to the hospital.

* * *

The doctors gave him a good once-over, cleaning cuts and repeatedly checking his hearing. They insisted on admitting him – two head rattles in one week made them nervous about sending him home. He didn't know what he was agreeing to until Rachel showed up later with some clothes out of his locker, sweats and a clean t-shirt without holes, and his book from his desk, and Raylan. Tim was able to hear a bit better by then, everyone talking to him from the inside of a pipe, muffled and distant, but the sharper background noises of the hospital were painful.

"I'm fine to go home." Tim complained to them. "It's just some fucking cuts and…"

"Don't make my life difficult," said Rachel. "Stay in the hospital tonight."

He pretended not to hear her so she wrote it out. He couldn't ignore that.

She had brought her computer with the surveillance footage from the parking lot, and the three of them scrolled through the day's worth. There wasn't a clear shot of the man's face but Tim had no doubt who had tossed the grenades – Heywood Humphrey, all six-foot fives inches of him loitering at the back of the building. It was a memorable silhouette.

"Heywood Humphrey," he said, pointing at the computer screen. "I'm pretty sure it's him. How many fucking other giants are there that have reason to get bitchy with me? I read the list of shit they confiscated from him last year. He's a grenade kind of fucking…dipshit asshole fucking coward."

"Don't hold back now, Tim," said Raylan. "Tell us how you really feel."

"I should've brought home the fucking deer meat and let it fucking spoil in the truck. We could've hung the antlers in the conference room."

Raylan turned to Rachel. "Do you have any idea what he's talking about?"

"Tim are you all right?" She eyed him, concerned.

"I'm fine."

"Then stop yelling at us."

"I'm not yelling."

"Yes, you are." Raylan and Rachel were together on that.

The hospital room felt like a jail cell after an hour. Tim tried sleeping, gave up and paced the floor then went through his pockets for his phone. He didn't know her number, didn't even know her last name. An idea surfaced past the headache now well-entrenched and he did a reverse look-up with her address – at least he knew that by heart. He dialed and it rang and rang and he finally gave up and hung up. Who the hell doesn't have some kind of answering service? Jo, apparently. He was surrounded by technophobes. He tried Max's burner again just for something to do. Again no answer. Stretching out on the bed he closed his eyes, sat up a minute later and walked out into the hallway.

There was a Deputy US Marshal sitting on a chair outside his door, Nelson. Tim frowned.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm on protection detail."

"What?"

"This is what happens when someone throws grenades at you." Nelson mimed as he talked. He looked ridiculous, especially when he got to the last part. "You get to have someone watching your ass."

Tim enjoyed the charades, eyebrow up. "I can hear you okay, you know. I'm going to see Art. You can come too if you want."

"I sat outside his door most of Tuesday. I was enjoying the change of scenery."

"Fine. Stay here then." Tim bared his teeth and growled at him and headed down the hall.

"Hey, are you even supposed to be up walking around?"

* * *

Art was awake and sitting up and looking more himself. He was sounding more himself too.

"Jesus, Tim, look at you. Has the dress code at the bureau gone to shit in my absence? I think you've taken the body piercing a bit too far for regulation. I may have to speak to Rachel about this."

"Hey, Boss. Good to see you feeling better."

"How many cars have you destroyed this week?"

"Only three. And really only one was my fault."

"Well, that's just great. How many do we have left?"

Tim pulled a chair up beside the bed and sank into it. "I missed you at the range today."

"Did you make your shot?"

Tim nodded. "I only make it look hard to make you feel better."

"You don't make it look hard enough to make me feel better. You okay? Grenades? Heywood Humphrey? Tim, you pissed off the wrong guy. It's not like this is a surprising move for him, at least not surprising to anyone who's read his jacket."

"Well, we might be able to get him finally. You know he was involved in shooting that game warden even if they can't find any evidence to prove it."

"Celebrating putting him away will be a whole lot of fun when we have to do it at your funeral."

"I'm fine. He's a fucking amateur. I had the car windows open in the front. He should've counted to two and lobbed one in. I'd have been shredded."

"Even amateurs get lucky. You be careful." The two of them shifted, both uncomfortable in one position for very long. "You here for the night?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking of signing myself out."

"It'd make this old man feel better if you didn't."

"What if I had someone to go home with?"

"That'd make me feel better too as long as it was a nice girl and not Raylan with a twenty-sixer of Jack."

Tim shifted in his seat again.

Art chuckled. "God, I hope it's not someone I know. I'd feel irresponsible not warning her off."

* * *

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	11. Chapter 11

**Jigsaw – Chapter Eleven**

Tim tried calling Jo again after he left Art, Nelson in tow. The phone rang until he hung up. He didn't want to be here, sighed loudly standing in the doorway to his hospital room. Everything was off. Everything had changed. It was time to shift and adjust to the new landscape. His ears were still ringing but that wasn't it. It wasn't the aches and pains and the stiffness still there from the collision in the intersection a few days back. It wasn't his longing for another night with Jo or Max's situation or Boyd's revelation about Raylan or Art in a hospital bed or a lack of sleep or lining up with oblivion that afternoon in the parking lot. It was something else entirely or maybe everything at once. It was coming to the end of a good book and knowing there wasn't a sequel. Time to choose a new plot.

Nelson had gone into the room ahead of him, checked the corners and closet and bathroom, turned and watched Tim standing there with his eyes focused somewhere else, chewing on his lip.

"Tim? Everything okay? The room's clear."

Nelson shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, always nervous in Tim's company, watching him warily as though Tim were a dog whose tail wasn't wagging. Tim didn't make it easy for anyone really, wasn't one for tail wagging, not for anybody, and Nelson couldn't seem to figure out that all he had to do was throw it back. It was beyond him to let loose and roll with the snark and draw out the grin that Tim always had lurking, hiding just behind the bared teeth.

"It's nothing," Tim said, not interested in talking to Nelson about what was bugging him. "Do you have a car here?"

Nelson nodded.

"I'm going home. You mind dropping me off?"

"Uh, I don't think I can. Rachel told me…"

Tim held up a hand, silencing the argument, and phoned Rachel to tell her he was signing himself out, told her he didn't need a protection detail, told her so he couldn't get Nelson in trouble, then he collected up his belongings and headed down the hall to find someone who would accept his signature on a piece of paper saying he was taking full responsibility for any of the consequences of disregarding the doctor's recommendation to stay in the hospital overnight. And then he went home.

Nelson agreed in the end to drop him off, after Tim had passed him his phone for a quick word with Rachel before marching out the door.

"You sure about this?" said Nelson falling in step behind.

"Yep."

Fifteen minutes later Nelson was pulling up to Tim's house. Tim did a quick visual of the property looking for a giant then, satisfied it was safe, he opened the car door.

"Thanks for the ride."

"Um, Tim, I was wondering…"

"I'm fine. I don't need you to stay."

"No, uh…"

Tim slid out of the seat, ducked down to look back in at Nelson. "Uh, what?"

Deputy Dunlop looked embarrassed, more nervous than usual. Tim wanted him gone, wanted to forget about work tonight, so he nudged a little hard.

"What is it, Nelson? I'm tired."

"Um… I can call you tomorrow about it. It's nothing."

"Tell me now. I might be out of town tomorrow."

"Uh… Well, it's just… I almost missed my qualification last month."

"Shooting?"

"Yeah, uh, I just squeaked in at 210." He worried his fingers on the steering wheel. "I didn't score well on the weak hand stuff and um, some misses because… I'm not great at shooting from behind the barrier, right? And at the 25 yard distance I'm a bit iffy." He finally looked Tim in the eye. "Would you, uh… I was hoping you might…"

Tim sat back in the seat, giving Nelson his attention. "You want me to take you to the range, see if we can't work out whatever it is?"

"Yeah. Would you?"

Tim nodded, wagged that tail a little bit. "Yeah, of course. No problem." He thought about it, where to start. "I had great instructors – got some good tips that they don't teach at Glynco. In the regiment, you understand, we got to do a lot of shooting. I can get you up to sharpshooter on your next qualifier."

"That would be awesome."

"We'll start Monday after work, focus on basics. You'll be amazed what you'll be able to do." He slapped Nelson on the shoulder. "Just give me a few hours and we'll have you shooting better than Raylan."

"You think?"

"Yep." Tim got out of the car again. "I promise. See you Monday."

Nelson smiled and Tim gave him the thumbs up. "Dude, sharpshooter, minimum."

"Okay. 'Night."

"'Night."

He closed the car door and shut out work, shut out the day. He had noticed her sitting on her step when he and Nelson pulled up, bottle of beer in her hand. It had drawn out a smile seeing her but he didn't comment. He wanted this kept separate from work, for now.

"You got another one of those?" he asked, stopping in front of her, interrupting her version of a blues song that he didn't recognize.

"Only if you're invited in."

He tilted his head over, wiped his hand over his mouth to hide the grin. "I was hoping to sleep in my own bed tonight."

"I was hoping for steak."

He sucked in his lower lip and stretched his eyebrows up, suddenly very tired and sore and a bit sad. "Sorry," he said.

She must have seen the sad, sang a little for him. _"Trouble in mind, I'm blue. But I won't be blue always. 'Cause the sun's gonna shine, in my backdoor someday."_

She sang it slow, in no rush to finish and get on with the conversation. That was one of the things that he thought about when she wasn't there, that she was never in a hurry. "Are you ever not singing?"

"Only when I'm kissing."

"Not sure which I like better."

"They're mutually exclusive, unfortunately."

"Can I have that invite?"

"What happened?"

"Somebody threw a grenade at me."

She stopped breathing for a moment, blinked, then let out the air, slowly. "That is the best excuse for standing someone up I've ever heard. And believe me, I've heard some good ones."

"Can I come in, please?"

"What about sleeping in your own bed?"

"I'll suffer."

She stood and came down to the walkway and handed him the rest of her beer and stopped singing long enough to kiss him and run a hand over the fresh cuts on his arm and on his face. "You make it easy to forgive you, neighbor. Grenades, huh?"

"It wasn't easy dodging grenades to fucking get here."

"All the best things in life are work."

He took a grateful drink from the bottle of beer and followed her singing inside.

"_I'm gonna lay my head,  
On some lonesome railroad line  
Let the 2:19 train  
Ease my troubled mind."_

"I just kinda suck at turning the other cheek," he said later, enjoying the soft skin and the spider web he couldn't see in the dark. He reached down and pulled the blanket up over them, the sweat starting to cool. "I hate that we didn't get Darryl Crowe, Jr." He said the name like a curse, emphasis on each of the three parts. "It should've been us."

She didn't reply, half asleep already. He lay awake a while longer thinking about six feet, five inches of threat and how easily he could fix the problem without the constraints of the United States Marshals Service Oath of Office.

* * *

Noises in the yard woke him at two in the morning, eyes snapped open. The ringing in his ears seemed to have faded out finally and he listened hard, heard something outside. He slipped out of bed and into his boxers and a t-shirt and found his backup in the dark and moved quietly down the stairs, all senses on alert. He unlocked the front door and walked across the cold grass to the backyard and peered around behind the house. Someone was at the back door. The dark couldn't disguise the fact that the figure was turned away and under six feet tall.

Tim walked softly across the lawn, gun up and aimed, said, "I'll fucking kill you if you move an inch. Hands up where I can see them. Nothing stupid 'cause I _feel _like pulling the trigger tonight."

The figure almost fell over at the sound of Tim's voice. Something slipped from his hand onto the grass. "Oh, Jesus," he said, sounding unnaturally loud at that hour. "Jesus, don't shoot."

"Hands up!"

"Oh, Jesus."

The back light came on then, a spotlight for the drama, illuminating both Tim and the back door prowler. It was Jo's ex, the doofus, and he was petrified in place.

Tim closed the distance and put the muzzle on the ex's forehead. "What the fuck are you doing? I told you to stay away."

"I'm sorry. Shit, shit, shit. Don't shoot me. Oh, Jesus." And he started sobbing.

Jo opened the back door then, a flashlight and a baseball bat. She took in the scene – her ex, he'd wet himself in fear, a puddle on the patio stone at the bottom of the step, Tim with his gun out and menacing.

"Oh, shit," she said. "Just stop. What the fuck?"

She reached out a hand, motioning Tim away but he was already taking a step back, lowering his guard and his gun, anger pushed down by her distress. She plunked herself down on the door sill, bat and flashlight on her lap. It was obvious she was holding back emotion.

"God's sake, Eddie," she said, pleading. "Are you getting the picture yet? Stop it. Tim, just… Eddie get the fuck out of here. You're gonna get hurt. Enough. Go away. Leave me alone."

She didn't get finished, the last phrase fading as it came out and she watched Eddie stagger around the side of the house and disappear. Tim bent down to pick up what Eddie had dropped earlier, a handgun.

"Is that...?"

"It's a fake," he said. "Stupid fuck."

"Oh, God," she said. "Would you have? Seriously?"

He turned to look at Jo, shrugged. "He won't be back. I can fucking promise you that."

"No. He won't."

Tim slumped, tired, feeling a bit off about the whole thing, leaned against the house. They stayed like that out in the lit backyard for a time. Jo moved first, arm out and fingers tugging Tim's hair.

"C'mon," she said grabbing a handful of t-shirt. "You want to sleep in your bed? Would you sleep better? I'll join you."

"It might be booby-trapped."

He turned his head to look at her and she smiled and he ducked his head and chuckled.

"So stay with me then," she said.

"I think your bed's more comfortable than mine, anyway."

"That's only 'cause I'm in it." She patted the space on the step beside her and he moved onto it. "What are you doing tomorrow? I don't _have_ to work. We can stay in bed till noon if you want, order room service. By the look of you, it couldn't hurt."

"I'm sorry about all this."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"I didn't know he'd…"

"Piss his pants? Me, neither," she said sadly. "I told you he was a doofus."

Tim had chambered a round when he stepped out the door earlier, expecting Heywood Humphrey. He cleared it, dropped the mag and snapped the round back in.

"You look like you know what you're doing."

He handed her the gun. "It's safetied," he said when she hesitated. She took it. He kept the magazine. "I don't do anything else as well as I do this." He tapped the mag against his leg. "You can trust me. I wouldn't have shot him unless he gave me cause."

"And if he gave you cause?"

"He'd be dead."

She turned the gun over in her hands, rough fingers feeling the shape of it, working relentlessly, agitated. He watched her. She wasn't looking at the weapon, only touching it, trying to get familiar with it like he was with her earlier. It made him restless after a while and he took one of her hands to slow them down and held it.

* * *

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**Author's note:** Dinah Washington, _Trouble in Mind_ – she's the best blues gal since Bessie Smith. It's all in the timing. watch?v=cnRi0aG6d5A


	12. Chapter 12

**Jigsaw – Chapter Twelve**

Sleeping in just wasn't working for Tim. He tried. Jo kept him busy when they first woke up and he was content to push the envelope until seven but then his fidgeting worked him over to the edge of the bed to keep him from waking her up – she was happily asleep again. He sat up finally and dropped his feet on the floor.

Her eyes opened and she rolled to face him. "Guess I'm going to work."

"I'll drive you."

"No, I'll bike."

The past week went through Tim's mind in review, disjointed, pieces slotting themselves. "Yeah, I guess you will bike. I forgot – my truck's still in the parking lot at work." He crawled back onto the bed and across her. "I think my clothes are on this side."

He leaned over the edge and grabbed his shorts and his jeans and flopped onto his back to wiggle into them, lying across her stomach. She tried to tickle him but he just lay there calmly, dismissive of her efforts. Eventually she gave up.

"Do you have any feelings at all?"

Only his eyebrow acknowledged the question.

"Maybe I'll run with you to the café then go get my truck." He slid over on top of her, lingering to let his hands roam, then got up to find the rest of his clothes, finished dressing while they talked. "I haven't had a chance to get out for a run all week."

"If that's what you want to do. You still look a bit beat up though."

"I'm fine. I'm gonna go change. Meet you out front in ten."

"Are you always like this? God, I feel like I'm in the army."

Tim snorted loudly. "Leave maybe." He sat back on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks.

Jo propped herself up on an elbow. "You were in the army?"

"Yeah. I thought you knew that."

"How would I know that?"

"I dunno."

"How long have you been out?"

"About four years."

"How long were you in?"

"Uh, almost nine."

"Not likely to rub off anytime soon then, huh?"

He turned to look at her. "No."

"You are so not my type."

Tim strapped on his watch, checked the time. "You're down to seven minutes."

"Can I have breakfast first?"

"I'll buy you something on the way in. I got cash."

She stayed there motionless, staring at him.

"Six minutes," he said.

She made him wait fifteen. Tim was doing push-ups on the front lawn when she finally appeared so she rolled her bike over him, laughing, got on it and started down the street.

"I want coffee, _now,"_ she yelled.

He got up and chased her.

* * *

Tim left Jo at the café and headed to the court house to see if there was any news on Heywood Humphrey, and to check on his truck. He walked backward into the bullpen drinking a coffee, his sweatshirt bundled in his other arm, nodded at a couple of deputies on weekend duty. Rachel was sitting in front of Art's desk, looking to Tim like she was part of the furniture. He walked straight in to talk to her.

"You been home yet this week?"

"Yes." You'd think he'd insulted her with the tone she used in her answer. She waved her pen at him, frowning at the sweats and t-shirt. "Is this proper office attire?"

"I'm off today." He applied the same tone back.

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm an idiot."

"At least you're not in denial. Go get me a coffee."

So he did, brought it in to her and occupied his new spot leaning against Art's desk.

"Nelson tells me you're going to help him with the qualifying next month," said Rachel. "I appreciate you doing that. I don't need him stuck on a desk – not now with everything else."

"Hey, don't thank me – it's in my best interest. I want everyone in the office shooting well if I'm relying on them. Is there anyone else having problems, scoring low? I'll do refreshers. I'd like to do a training day on room clearing too. We're getting sloppy about it – someone's gonna get hurt. Everybody crowds in on the door like it's fucking happy hour at the bar."

"I'll talk to Art."

"Yeah, you could do that. Or, you could just say _yes."_

Rachel paused and blinked, a small frown. "Yes. It's a good idea."

"There. Was that so hard?"

"What do you want, Tim?"

He pulled up a chair and sat down. "Any luck tracking down Humphrey?"

"We got a BOLO out as soon as we knew it was him. Got a clear ID from the security camera on the building behind the lot. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

"Who's on it?"

"Everybody – LPD, State Police between here and Florida, us. I'm not taking this lightly. He tried to kill you. You're one of us."

Tim stood again, coffee finished. "He'll head south, take to the woods. It's what he did last time. He knows the area well, the public forest in north Georgia and into Tennessee. I'd focus there."

"Tim, leave it alone. You know you can't be involved."

She turned to look at him when she said it, but he'd already left.

* * *

There was a line, imaginary except in Tim's head, defined by his personal rules of engagement which were sketched in roughly around his Marshals oath, a line that he had been dancing with all week. He had one foot firmly across it the night Art was shot. All he had needed then to move the other foot over was Raylan's help navigating Harlan territory to facilitate a meeting with Darryl Crowe, Jr., something that had to happen within the narrow timeframe available to them. But Raylan had denied him the opportunity, waved Tim back behind that line and pulled Kendal Crowe's mother up to it instead. Tim had watched, frustrated, boots kicking at the dirt by the line until he got the news that Wendy Crowe had been shoved over it. She was now a killer and all the self-defense bullshit in the report was just that – bullshit. He felt badly for her and was still angry about it – she just wasn't the type to pull the trigger unless desperate. They'd made her desperate, changed her life forever, and for what? Some messed up idea of what Art would want. Tim would've gladly put down Darryl Crowe, Jr. and saved her the pain.

A day and two grenades later he found himself there again, toes right up against that imaginary line. His truck was parked in the lot the day Heywood Humphrey started lobbing grenades at him. Looking at it, the damage to the back gate and the right rear panel, and the new chip in the back window from the blast, that was all the gentle nudge he needed to put that foot over the line again, a light brush of anger on the back of his neck added to the pressure already in place when Heywood Humphrey tried to kill him.

He loved his truck – not like he loved his buddies from the regiment or his mom or his neighbor, the one he couldn't stop thinking about these days, or his own life for that matter, but it was his, that truck, and it was important to him, and insurance money wasn't ever going to make it good as new again. It pissed him off.

He stepped over, both feet now firmly on the far side of that line.

He needed to get to Atlanta this weekend to see Max but there was something else that needed doing first. Heywood Humphrey had a reckoning coming.

The number he pulled up and dialed was one of his primary contacts, a good friend. He was happy when his call was answered after just a single ring. "Hey, asshole, what're you up to today?" he asked after his buddy finished yelling obscenities into the phone. "I need a favor."

The reply had him grinning. Running his fingers along the puncture marks and scratches marring the gate of his truck, he made his request, finished the conversation and hung up, then climbed in, backed out of his spot and went to run some errands.

* * *

"Look, just take the fucking phone," said Tim, holding out the offending piece of equipment to Jo. He'd picked her up a burner like Max's, hoping to be able to keep in touch with her while he was gone.

"But people will call me on it."

"Not if you don't give them your number."

"Why do I need a phone?"

"You don't. _ I_ need you to have a phone."

"Oh. Well, in that case." She accepted it.

"Tell me you know how to use it."

"Fuck off."

"You fuck off," he said and kissed her. "I'm hoping I'll be back tomorrow, probably late though."

"Where are you off to this time?"

"Another hunting trip then down to Atlanta to check on a friend."

"You say 'hunting trip' and I hear 'don't ask.'"

"So don't ask." He pointed to the phone. "I put my number on there for you."

"For _me?"_

"Didn't I say fuck off already?"

She never seemed terribly concerned that his tail wasn't wagging, held him still a moment with a look then started singing, _"Hey Joe, where you going with that…?"_

He kissed her again to stop her finishing the line.

* * *

Tim had dropped the suggestion about Heywood Humphrey's possible whereabouts, counting on Rachel to send out a request asking the locals to focus on the roads through the forested area between Tennessee and Georgia. He had a hunch and he was back home packing based on that hunch.

Heywood and his friends had been free with their stories while they drank beer with Tim, showing him their favorite hunting areas on a good geologist's topographical map and pointing out the locations of some abandoned back-country cabins that they took advantage of on either side of the Georgia/Tennessee border for weekend off-season shooting. There was a confident gloating in their talk, descriptions of how tricky the terrain was, how difficult it would be for the authorities to find them there in that heavily forested and mountainous region. Of course, they didn't know at the time that they were talking to a Deputy US Marshal, and they didn't know that he was a former Army Ranger and that part of his training was twenty-two grinding days at Camp Merrill in North Georgia, trekking over that very same terrain, hungry, exhausted and cold.

Tim was looking forward to revisiting the area with warm clothes, some delicious MREs, a small GPS unit, a good map and compass, and a friend, another former Ranger. It seemed a luxury. Give or take, it was a four hour drive to Cleveland, Tennessee and that's where Tim was meeting his buddy, Ryan Creswell. Ryan was likely already in his truck on his way south. Tim hoped to get a lead on Heywood Humphrey, a starting point, before he had to meet Ryan, otherwise it might be a wasted trip. They'd have to settle then for beer and a burger and then a night up talking and sharing a bottle of Jameson in a cheap roadside motel.

Ryan and Tim were in the same battalion together, same platoon, joined and left at the same time. Ryan lived now just north of Richmond, Virginia, and worked for a private military company, enjoying keeping his fingers in it, and he was happy to share his weekend and help a buddy. He also had access to gear that Tim needed if he was going night hunting, some decent night vision equipment and laser sights.

It was going to be like old times.

The call came through from Rachel just after lunch, a location on Heywood Humphrey's vehicle abandoned on the side of a road in the Cherokee National Forest, called in by a Tennessee trooper. Tim grinned when he recognized the location, threw his gear behind the seat and headed for the interstate.

* * *

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	13. Chapter 13

**Jigsaw – Chapter Thirteen**

The Virginia plates caught his eye. Tim pulled into a gas station on the east side of Cleveland, Tennessee on highway 64 and up to a pump next to Ryan's truck. His buddy came out the door of the station when Tim stepped down to fill up. They saw each other at the same time, grinned.

"Yo, dude."

"Yo, dude, back."

They both started laughing, met halfway for a hug and some sarcasm.

"You've pimped your ride," said Tim, the grin holding, gesturing at the shiny new Ford.

"Oh, now, all the plastic surgery in the world couldn't perform that kinda magic. This one's fresh off the assembly line."

"What happened to the old beater?"

"Fucking dropped a tranny."

"Ouch."

"It's good to see you, buddy. Been a while."

"Been stupid crazy at work." Tim decided the details of that statement could wait for a beer. "I appreciate you coming. Did you get the gear?"

"'Course I got the gear. It wasn't a problem. Your timing is brilliant. I've been kicking around the past month waiting for another contract. You can only do so much working out and range time. I'm coming with you, by the way, whatever it is you're up to. I brought extra equipment. Brought some extra help too."

"Uh…"

Another man stepped out of Ryan's truck, on cue, nodded a greeting. Ryan dropped an arm around Tim's shoulders and pulled him over to introduce him.

"Do you know this guy? He can't help that he's first batt, but other than that he's okay."

Tim's smile broadened. "Shit, Wilkie? Fuck, dude, haven't seen you since Ranger School."

"You don't look like you've put on a pound since graduation." Chris Wilkie shook Tim's hand then pulled him in for a hug.

"Jesus, how long's it been?" said Tim. "And where've you been hiding?"

"I haven't been hiding. I just wasn't banished to the far side of the fucking continent like you two. You must've really fucked up in RIP for them to ship you all the way out there just so they wouldn't have to look at you again."

"That's God's country out there," said Ryan. "Me and Tim, we're that special."

"Fucking special, all right. That means rain-resistant, doesn't it? You haven't lost the pasty-white yet."

"Poor boy." Ryan shook his head. "He's still jealous that he didn't get to wrestle any grizzlies. All he got to do was lie around fucking sunning himself."

"How long you been out?" Tim asked. "I never heard a thing."

"After my contract – didn't re-up. Ryan tells me you ended up with the sniper platoon."

"What with the rain and this cabin-fevered asshole, I was fucking climbing the walls. And my platoon sergeant said, 'Look, a sniper,' and taught me how shoot an M110." Tim patted Ryan's shoulder. "I owe it all to this guy."

"I fucking believe it. He'd drive me up the walls." Chris dropped his head. "He_ is_ driving me up the walls."

The grin wouldn't quit, Tim was happy for a taste of the regiment. "So you two work together? Fuck, the Marshals Service is looking good today." He turned back to the pumps. "I gotta fill up then let's grab a bite. I'm not heading out till later. We got time."

Ryan and Chris followed Tim to his truck. It was hard to miss the damage on the back and they all stopped for a look.

"What the fuck happened?" Ryan crouched down to examine the pockmarks on the tailgate.

"Collateral damage."

"Looks like you backed into a herd of very short, very angry unicorns."

"Don't call them short," said Tim. "That was my mistake." He stepped past them to start pumping gas. "You guys need to move to Kentucky. That's where all the excitement is these days. I was dealing with an IED a few weeks back, then I was in a real live Mexican narco shootout, and now, fuck, unicorn attacks, and grenades…"

Ryan's head popped up over the tailgate. "The unicorns had grenades?"

"They're organized, man. It's a regular uprising. They think they can run the country better."

"Probably can."

Chris couldn't keep a straight face, he was trying. "Well, if you're hunting grenade-launching unicorns, I'm definitely in."

The offer didn't surprise Tim. He'd do the same. "Hey, I appreciate the gear, but this is Marshal business…sort of. You really shouldn't be…"

"Dude," said Ryan, "we're bored. And I didn't drive eight hours to say hi and have a burger. We're coming along. Can't you fucking deputize us or something?"

"I think we lost that executive power sometime around the turn of the last century." Tim wiped a hand across his mouth, thought about it briefly. "But I'd appreciate the company. Can you be discreet?"

Chris and Ryan nodded happily, a couple of boys with firewood and matches. "Oh, yeah, sure, discreet. No problem. Speaking of discreet, let Chris finish filling your truck. Come see what I got for you."

Ryan had an extra-long cab on his truck, opened the back and unzipped two duffels and moved out of the way so Tim could get a look. Tim was properly appreciative.

"I love you, man."

"I know. I'm fucking awesome."

Four AR-15s with laser sights, helmets with night vision gear attached – more toys than Tim had hoped for. He chuckled happily while he fished through the bags.

"I brought extra in case you had someone with you, and…"

Ryan reached into his pocket and pulled out the final item, the cherry for the top, a tin of tobacco, Copenhagen. Tim pretended to wipe away a tear. "Dude, you remembered. I'm touched."

Ryan opened it. "Dip?"

"Haven't touched the stuff since I left." He took a bit and tucked it under his lip, raised his eyebrows. "Next, you'll be getting all maudlin and telling me war stories."

* * *

The waitress was disappointed when the three men seated at a table in her section didn't order any beer, just water and soda and food. They left her a good tip though and left Tim's truck in the parking lot and drove east into the Cherokee National Forest.

Tim was watching the odometer when they turned off the main road, almost missed seeing the Town Car with the Kentucky plates parked on the dirt shoulder. Annoyed, more at his lack of surprise than anything, he puffed out a breath, pointed to it. "Look, someone left us a marker. Might as well pull in behind it."

"That's an expensive marker," said Ryan, slowing down and sliding his truck onto the shoulder. "Odd car to find out here."

"It's Raylan."

"Who's Raylan?"

"I work with him. I think he's here to make sure I don't fucking do something stupid, or maybe he's here to help. I wouldn't care to guess."

"You sure it's him?"

"I'm sure."

"He wears a cowboy hat?"

"It's his shtick."

Tim stepped out of the truck and walked up to the driver's side of the car, rapped his knuckles on the window hoping he'd catch Raylan napping. The window rolled down and Raylan tipped his hat up.

"Hey, Tim. What a surprise seeing you on this back road in Tennessee at the very, exact spot where they found Heywood Humphrey's truck. They towed it already. It's in impound."

"Heywood in it?"

"Nope. Sorry you missed all the excitement. What d'you say we go for a beer?"

"Raylan, tell me you're not here to stop me doing what I'm doing."

"And if I am?"

"I got two buddies with AR-15s saying otherwise." Tim thumbed back at the truck.

"Well, that's a strong argument. Just what are you all planning on doing?"

Tim tilted his head. "I'm just going hiking, Raylan. We're all members of the 4-H club. We get together for meetings and projects every Saturday night."

Raylan rolled up the window and opened his door and climbed out, stretching a little. "4-H, huh? What is that – head, heart, hands and…health, if I remember correctly?" He counted each word on a finger.

"Really, is that what it stands for? I thought it was Heywood Humphrey hunting."

"That's only three."

"_Huh." _Tim put a little extra emphasis on the 'h' at the beginning of the word.

"There we go, got it to four. Bit of a stretch."

"It's not a book club. We don't tend to pay much attention to the word count."

"Just the bullet count?"

"Yep."

Turning his head to eye the truck parked behind him, Raylan took a moment to consider the situation. Tim watched, waited patiently. There were only two ways this standoff was going to resolve itself – either Raylan helped or he hindered. He just wasn't a sideline kind of guy. Either way, Tim wasn't going to let it stop him.

"Did Rachel send you?" Tim asked.

"She seconded the motion."

"So this was all your idea, coming here to keep an eye on me?"

"Surprisingly, yes. I know you're still mad about Darryl Crowe. I'm worried it might be clouding your judgment."

"Quite the opposite."

Raylan nodded, watching Tim. His eyes slid over to the truck again. "Let me meet your friends," he said, started toward the other vehicle. He stopped when both doors opened at the same time and Tim's buddies stepped out.

"Guys, this is Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens. Raylan, this is Ryan Creswell and Chris Wilkie."

"You serve together?"

"Me and Ryan did, same platoon. Chris was with the first batt down in Savannah. But he's a Ranger, too. That makes him practically family."

Raylan studied all three of them. "Before I decide what I'm gonna do, I need to know – what are you gonna do with your catch…if you catch him?"

"A good scare and a holding cell in Cleveland or Chattanooga or wherever they'll have him and maybe something like attempted murder charges…if he cooperates. If not, I'm thinking a bullet to the head and I'll figure out what to say to the locals while I wait for them to show up to get the body. I'm gonna get him, Raylan, one way or another."

There was nothing Raylan could do and Tim knew it. There was nothing Raylan hadn't already done and Tim knew it. The sun was running away from them, hiding out down low among the trees, watching. Tim waved his buddies to the back of the truck to start loading up their gear and walked over to join them.

"You can come with us if you want, or you can wait here," he called over his shoulder to Raylan. "Doesn't matter to me."

"I'll come with."

"We've got a bit of a hike. If he's where I think he is, it'll be about eight kilometers in and not an easy walk. And before you say it, I know they're planning on sweeping the area tomorrow, but who knows what that asshole's got waiting for us. He'd be just the type to take out as many as he could before giving up. I want to fucking surprise the bastard. No one gets hurt."

"Except him."

"Maybe."

"You're going now, in the dark?"

Ryan popped his head up from digging in the back of the truck, grinned widely and confidently. "That's what we do best," he said.

* * *

They had been hiking for almost an hour when Ryan stopped and pulled out the night optics gear. It was getting impossible to see the terrain. They'd walked a west-facing hill first, had the advantage of dwindling twilight, but the forest crowding around them and then the drop beyond the first ridge pitched them into darkness quickly. There was no light left, no moonlight to provide differentiation in the landscape, no grays, just black. Tim, Ryan and Chris checked their heading, GPS against a compass and terrain map, double redundancy and worth the time, then they donned their NODs and trudged on. Raylan was struggling to keep up in the dark, stumbling on the uneven terrain. The second time he tripped, Tim turned and walked back to offer some advice.

"It's not you – it's hard walking with NODs," he said. "You can't trust your depth perception – these things fuck it all up, flatten everything. Holes and dips look smaller than they are and trip you up 'cause you're not expecting it. Slopes look shallower. Any area in the shadows is going to be difficult to gauge. Makes it easier to see the leprechauns." Tim shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Leprechauns?"

"Just making sure you're listening."

He took Raylan's headgear, dropping him back into blackness and illustrating the need for the night optics. He checked the settings, gave it back. "I've set your focus on the farthest distance – things up close will be blurry but you need to see clearly farther away in order to aim. You do up close stuff by feel. Got it?"

Raylan adjusted the night vision gear on his face, huffed and planted his hands on his hips. "Shit, this is annoying. Did you have to work with these much?"

"Every fucking mission. Imagine my surprise when I became a Marshal and discovered I could shoot any color target, not just the green ones."

"Remind me never to wear green at the office."

Tim grinned; Raylan could see it just fine through the blurry and green shades of the night optics.

"Try to keep up."

"Don't be a shit."

"I'll pick you up on the way out if you fall behind. Just stay put if you do, don't wander off and get lost."

"I've decided I hate Rangers, current and former."

"Take a fucking number and get in line. You're years behind the Taliban."

There were a couple quiet chuckles of agreement from the forest ahead.

"Before I take another step with this stupid night vision shit, tell me something, Tim – are you sure you know where you're going?"

"You didn't meet this guy, Raylan. I spent most of a day with him. He's at home in these woods. I figured for sure it'd be me volunteering to hunt his ass out here to drag him into court, so I took the time to map all the cabins he and his buddies told me about when I delivered that subpoena. They loved to brag." Tim waved an arm, a sweep of green. "There's only one cabin they mentioned this side of the Georgia line and I'm pretty sure of my coordinates. Besides, don't know if you've noticed but we're actually following a bit of a trail. Apparently Heywood's been up here a few times and probably someone before him."

"This is a trail?"

"Sort of. We'll get off it when we get closer. I don't trust him. Knowing this asshole, he likely booby-trapped it near the cabin."

"Shit."

"Night's a-wasting. Let's go."

* * *

"All due respect, Raylan, I don't think you know night ops as well as I do." A few hours later Tim and Raylan were arguing quietly within sight of the cabin. "You're likely to get somebody killed stumbling around getting used to the NOD. I don't want to get shot in the back when you trip with your gun out. Stay here or I'll cuff you to a tree like you did Boyd."

"You think you could?"

"Don't make me try."

Raylan looked he might, but in the end he held up a hand halting the pissing contest. "I'll wait here."

"It won't take long." Tim turned and started toward the cabin speaking quietly to the other two. "I'll take lead. I know what I'm looking for."

"It'd be nice to have the fourth man, someone watching our backs."

"Raylan can keep an eye out from there."

"You trust him?"

"With this, I do."

Raylan watched them move quietly toward the cabin and up onto the porch. They stacked on the left side of the door and Tim reached out a hand and tried the door knob. It was unlocked. He brought the barrel of his rifle up, set the stock tight against his cheek, flicked on the laser sight and pushed the door open and stepped through, Ryan and Chris following quickly, one moving right, one left. They disappeared inside.

* * *

Heywood Humphrey was a snorer, and arrogant. He lay flat on his back on the floor of the cabin, mattress and sleeping bag, mouth open, a shotgun lying along his right side. Tim approached the sleeping man confident that the room was cleared, and cleared properly, trusted that his buddies had his back. He put a foot and his weight on the shotgun, flicked the safety switch on his rifle and hooked it by the strap over his shoulder then he pulled out his handgun and crouched down beside Heywood, keeping an eye and a sight on him, and searched around under the sleeping bag and pillow for other weapons. There was a handgun tucked up beside Heywood's head. Tim pocketed it and kept looking. Eventually, satisfied, he picked up the shotgun and backed away, letting Chris and Ryan move in to cover him.

Then he kicked Heywood hard in the leg to wake him up. It felt good. The yelp was impressive.

They could see him clearly, but he couldn't see them. He reached for his shotgun and Tim kicked him again, this time in the head and it stunned him.

"US Marshals. On your stomach, asshole. I'm worried I'll shoot you if I have to look at your face."

It was nice to see the arrogance in full-flight, the void filled by fear. The man rolled over and reached under his pillow and Tim stomped hard on his hand for another yelp.

"I got your gun," he said. "Don't be stupid 'cause I really wanna put a bullet through your skull. Arms over your head."

Tim kneeled on Heywood's back, pulled a zip-tie from his pocket and trussed up his catch.

Ryan snorted loudly. "Don't you Marshals have proper fucking handcuffs?"

"Fur-lined," Tim said, standing up and nudging Heywood with his toe, grinning at the spasm in reaction. "But I left them at my girlfriend's."

"You mean your boyfriend's?"

"No, sorry, I meant _your _girlfriend's."

"Really? Shit, I can hardly wait to get home."

Chris was chuckling, enjoying Ryan and Tim's banter.

Heywood was looking at blackness, everywhere, still confused about what was going on, but he caught hints in the words floating by. "Is that that fucking little shit Marshal talking?"

"That's me." Tim sang it back, enough facetious to make it expressive through the dark.

"You're a fucking coward!"

"This from the guy who lobs hand grenades… Fuck you."

He walked back to the door and called out to Raylan. "Dinner's ready."

* * *

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**Author's note:** Thanks to a friend for tips on walking with night vision gear. It doesn't sound easy. That'd be me tripping and falling.


	14. Chapter 14

**Jigsaw – Chapter Fourteen**

It was decided it would be best if Chris and Ryan left before daylight, especially since Tim now had Raylan for company and backup – less explaining to the locals when the Marshals led their fugitive back to civilization in the morning. Dragging Heywood out of the forest in the dark was an unnecessary effort and Tim was content enough to wait.

"Save me some coffee," he called to their backs as Ryan and Chris disappeared among the trees. They were still using night vision gear, all of them, and he watched them for a bit, green figures moving in a green landscape, then he turned and went back inside with Raylan and Heywood.

With just the three of them left in the cabin Tim felt comfortable shedding a little light on the situation. He pulled a flashlight out of his pack and stuffed the helmet in. The beam was intense after the pale and easy green, intense for Heywood too coming abruptly out of the blackness. Tim ran the beam around the room then walked over to where he'd noticed a lantern sitting on a shelf, battery operated. It lit up the cabin in halogen white.

Tim shared a worn expression with Raylan sitting comfortably in the only chair at a rough and old table. The two of them raised their eyebrows at the same time, a bit of _well look at us_, both grinned.

"This'll be a story to tell my daughter when she's grown," said Raylan. "I saw green men in the forest."

Raylan was holding out the gear he'd borrowed; Tim stepped closer to collect it. "I told you," he said, "leprechauns."

"I'll have a fucking story to tell my lawyer, you mother-fucking assholes." Heywood could finally see who had roped and tied him so neatly, ankles and wrists bound, still lying on the mattress.

Tim glanced at his catch, walked back to his pack and pulled out a roll of duck tape and threw it over beside Heywood. "Shut your fucking mouth or I'll tape it shut. Your choice."

"Fuck you!"

Tim made a move toward him but Raylan stopped him, an arm out from across the room.

"Nah, Tim, let him talk. We've got him dead-to-rights so I don't mind listening to his bullshit for an hour. Attempted murder of a federal officer – that means a lot to us, Mr. Humphrey. You have no idea how much."

"Attempted murder…what the fuck?" Heywood spat the words out, glared at Tim. "You hardly got a scratch on you. Those grenades didn't land anywhere the fuck near you. You were hiding in the front seat of your fancy car like a fucking pussy."

"You got that?" asked Tim.

"Yep." Raylan wagged his phone.

"Can I tape his mouth shut now?"

"Be my guest." Raylan stood up to help. "I thought for sure you were gonna kill him," he said to Tim, pulling out his sidearm and pressing the barrel firmly against Heywood's forehead, stilling him.

Tim ripped off a piece of tape and slapped it across Heywood's mouth. "It's still an option." He backed over to the door and sat against it down on the floor, leaving the chair available for Raylan.

"Must be good friends to do this for you," said Raylan after a time, after Heywood had settled down again, settled into his fate and lay quietly where they left him.

"Ryan and me, we went all the way through together, ended up at Fort Lewis out of RASP, same platoon, same rifle squad. I was almost disappointed when they told me to report to the sniper platoon after a few years even though it was what I'd always wanted – I was so used to the bullshit coming out of his mouth, I thought I'd miss it aimed at me all day every day…" Tim finished the tale with a little smile tugging. "I always joke that I got so good at climbing walls because he'd drive me up them, fucking drive me crazy some days, and that's why they picked me."

"Picked you for what? I don't get it."

"It's part of the sniper training, learning how to climb buildings. Handy skill."

"I guess that makes sense."

They woke a moth, tempted it with the light to come out of its cold weather nook and they watched it flicker frantically around the lantern, casting its shadow like a behemoth on the walls, endless circles. Humphrey started snoring again, quietly through his nose. The sound pulled Tim's attention away from the moth and he watched his prisoner, amazed he could sleep, a bit of admiration for the practicality of it.

Raylan shifted in his seat finally, cast his own shadows. "Tell me, Tim. Would things have gone down differently if I wasn't here putting a damper on your party?"

Tim thought about the question, circled it. Would he have gone there? He always imagined questions like this as something physical because life for him was physical, action and reaction. It was crossing a line or not crossing a line and he often thought that maybe he was always on the wrong side of it looking to cross back over to the right side. But tonight he considered that maybe the 'right side' was actually a tightly guarded circle. There was no right side – in the spatial sense – and left side, but an inside and an outside. It never seemed straightforward to him, what he should do and what he shouldn't, so maybe that line wasn't straight, the one he danced around, maybe it was curved and he circled it, constantly on the wrong side looking for a reason or an opening to get back inside, constantly surprised when it turned away from where he thought it should be going. Maybe 'get back inside' wasn't right either, maybe he was never there to begin with, maybe none of them were, no one he knew. And that circle felt like it was shrinking this week, impossible for him to fit into and he turned from it.

Another yawn enveloped him, pulled him away from his thoughts.

"Fuck it," he said finally. "I shouldn't have sat down. It's the kiss of death. I never feel tired until I sit down."

He slid a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the tin of tobacco that Ryan had given him, held it up for Raylan to see then opened it and helped himself to a small dip, tucked it under his lip and casually lobbed the tin to Raylan. Raylan caught it and turned it so the type was facing the right way. His face was inscrutable as he examined the tin, tapped a finger on it, but he opened it eventually, dipping with practiced ease.

Tim chuckled. "You whore."

"Takes one to know one." Raylan turned the tin in his hands a few times, ran his thumb over the top then tossed it back. "I didn't know you were a dipper…and a skinny dipper at that."

"Hilarious. You are just too funny."

"It's four in the morning. Everything's funny."

"Ryan brought it. It's a running joke." Tim yawned again, slid the tin back in his pocket. "It's a good buzz when your sleep routine is blown to shit. We all dipped. Can't smoke on a mission. Imagine all these little red dots coming over the hill for the Taliban to target on." He mimicked holding a rifle up, looking through a scope.

"Night ops?"

"And most of our training too, late nights. I'm still..." He was too tired to bother finishing the sentence. "Anyway, wasn't hard for me, quitting the stuff. I never touched it again after I got out, until tonight – so much other shit going on, I didn't miss it."

"Not an addictive personality."

"I'm not sure how to take that."

Raylan worked his mouth a bit, spat expertly, grinned. "I got my college roommate hooked on dipping. We used to think it was funny watching the girls squirm when we spit."

* * *

There was a moment, more than halfway back to the road at the point where they could hear the locals out with the dogs working their way in toward them and Heywood decided to make a run for it, a moment where Tim lifted his gun out of the thigh holster he was wearing, aimed and thought about it one last time. He didn't bother flicking off the safety though.

Raylan just watched. "Didn't bring your official Marshals sidearm for this trip?" he said. "Should I be concerned?"

"I don't like the laser sights on the Glock."

Raylan nodded. "Are you gonna chase him? I'm sure as hell not. He's your problem."

"Fine." Tim handed Raylan his pack and jogged down the slope. "Meet you back at the car."

"Don't get lost."

"Fuck off."

He could hear Raylan chuckling.

It didn't take long to catch up with Humphrey – he was a woodsman but not much of a runner. Tim pulled his sidearm again when they were face-to-face, waved it in the direction he wanted them to walk. Heywood was defiant, looked like he might run again and Tim willed him to do it, lifted the gun level with the man's chest and smiled a not-so-friendly smile. Two state troopers and a game warden from the area walked into view.

"Are you Deputy Gutterson? A Marshal in a cowboy hat told us to look out for you down this way."

* * *

"I met this girl," Tim said, opening a new conversation. He sat back in the booth and waited for the words to sink in.

He and Max were at their favorite diner again, chowing their way through an all-day/all-night breakfast special, three eggs, sausages, bacon, home fries, toast, juice and coffee, the usual, talking away the after-midnight drowsy. Through experience, Tim had found that if he got Max focused on something simple, something immediate, he could usually get him to find the road out of crazy town and then he could get some real information from him. It was work this visit, though, more than usual. Phil's murder had thrown Max into a mental tailspin and all he would talk about was patrolling the jungle and enemy eyes watching and the need to stay awake. It didn't help that the man's hearing was blown to shit from sitting security for the artillery in Vietnam, only thirty feet away when the cannons let loose.

Max sat chewing thoughtfully, looked up finally and said, "She pregnant?"

So he'd heard. "No, asshole."

"There's a woman here – everyone knows her – she'll do it with you if you ask her and bring her a bottle of something for payment."

"That's really fucking nice, Max, makes me all gooey inside."

"Hey, I got needs."

"Yeah, me too, I need you to not tell me about that. Jesus, I've shared a bottle with you."

Max's grin was loony bin, every line of it. "Fine. Tell me about yours then."

"I don't think I want to now. That's like fucking… It's completely fucking different."

"You're a bit touchy. You must like her."

"She's a character."

"That's it? That's what you're all uptight about?"

"Yeah, okay, so I like her."

"You sleep with her yet?"

"Maybe."

"You slept with her."

"Yeah, okay. I slept with her."

"She pretty?"

"I think so."

"Well, don't screw it up like the last one."

"That one was screwed before we ever fucked."

Tim waited while Max finished laughing, then took the conversation where he wanted it to go. "Tell me what the gang's been saying about the guy that did Phil."

"You going after him?"

"I'm gonna look into it, make some calls. I don't want you going after him, Max."

"I'll take you to see Mr. Gator. He'll tell you."

"Mr. Gator?"

"The guy I was telling you about, the one up from Orlando who said the same thing happened there."

"I gotta be back at work in six hours," said Tim, looking at this watch, "I gotta leave like...now. Eat up, buddy. I'll be back next Saturday – you can take me to see him then."

* * *

Tim didn't bother going home first. Back in Lexington just before eight, he drove straight to the court house to start the week.

"Glad you found Heywood," said Rachel when she saw him. She examined him carefully, sleep-deprived eyes, wrinkled shirt and dirty boots. "Glad no one got hurt."

"We were careful."

"You and...Raylan?"

"I won't lie to you if you ask me a direct question."

"The AUSA thinks it's going to be an easy court case with all of his prior run-ins with law enforcement and then the surveillance tapes and then the stash of grenades they found at his house yesterday."

"Grenades? Is that all?"

"Hardly. Do you want to see the list?"

"Sure."

"Staff meeting first." She pointed to the conference room.

Afterward he wrote up his report, all the details of his and Raylan's exploits capturing their fugitive, set it on Art's desk and then fished through his desk's stack of current warrants and possible sightings and unreturned phone calls.

A little later Rachel walked out of Art's office with the report open, reading. "Just you and Raylan, huh? Heywood thinks there were at least four of you."

"The man's pride's hurting that we took him so easy – wants it to be something bigger than it was. He couldn't see a thing in the dark. And it was solid dark, can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark. Humphrey's full of shit."

"That's what Raylan said."

"Well, then…"

"What did you do after Raylan dropped you at your truck?"

"I had breakfast with some old friends who were down there hunting…coincidently. Then after that I went on down to Atlanta and had another breakfast with Max."

"How's Max?"

"Still crazy."

"When did you get home?"

Tim wiped a hand across his mouth. "Didn't."

"Then go home now," said Rachel. "You look like shit." She turned away and headed to Art's office. "See you tomorrow."

"How's Art doing?"

Rachel stopped, turned back. "Leslie says he should be home in a couple days."

"Poor Leslie."

They both grinned.

* * *

"Every time you come in here you look worse."

"Every time I come in here you look better."

Art sat up a little straighter, awkwardly pushing himself up higher on the bed and rearranging pillows. He waved Tim off when he stepped over to help.

"Grab a chair," he said impatiently. "I'm fine. You, on the other hand, look like you're gonna fall down any minute."

"I'm alright. I just need some sleep."

"Rachel tells me you and Raylan," Art grunted, still settling, "had some fun with Mr. Hand Grenade down in Georgia."

"Tennessee – you're missing all the fun lying around in here all day."

"Don't remind me. You go see your homeless friend after that?"

"You've got good intel."

"Rachel wasn't my pick just because she's the prettiest." Art reached for the coffee sitting on his side table, made a face when he had a sip. "Shit. It's cold." He held it out for Tim.

"I don't want it."

"Go get us some fresh and then tell me what's up with this Atlanta thing."

Most other people Tim would've told to fuck off.

* * *

He watched her reflected in the glass of the kitchen window against the dark – she let herself in, opened the door and stepped tentatively inside and stopped, tilted her head listening, then she peered around the wall into his living room, empty, and turned in a circle and walked to the bottom of the stairs and peered up. The music was loud, heavy, fast. She couldn't hear him when he set the slide from his handgun and his cleaning brush down on the table or when he slid his chair back and walked the squeaky hall floor and stopped right behind her. She turned to go into the kitchen and bumped into him and jumped.

"Fuck! Don't scare me like that," she said, the words jetting out loudly, sharply, startled. She would've had to yell anyway to be heard over the stereo.

He grinned and tucked his fingers through the belt loops of her jeans and pulled her tightly against him and kissed her and two-left-feet waltzed her stumbling back toward the living room and down onto the couch. It didn't take him long to get her and himself undressed and the music was aggressive so the sex was too, but fun, and she laughed when they lay panting after and said loudly in his ear, warm, "Is this Suicide Silence we're listing to?"

He had stopped assuming, so it seemed natural that she'd know the band.

"This one, yeah."

"So romantic. I'm worried what this might say about your mood."

He kissed her neck from one side to the other then got up to turn down the volume. She pulled him back onto the couch with her and the song ended. The next one was a little quieter.

"It's a mix some guy in my old platoon made up. Everyone's favorite band got on it – there's even some Johnny Cash and some Brad Paisley..."

"And Foo Fighters," she said, naming the next group.

"Yep. See? Nothing to do with my mood."

"Depends on if you were out fighting foo with that gun of yours."

She wiggled around until she was lying on top of him and hummed along with the song while he ran his hands on her skin, caught in the spider's web.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "I feel like company on my pillow tonight."

"How about my pillow instead?"

"Beats getting dressed."

* * *

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	15. Chapter 15

**Jigsaw – Chapter Fifteen**

It was equally easier and harder having Jo at his house for the night, easier because he didn't have to reorient himself when he woke in the dark, harder because when he did wake in the dark he couldn't resist the bad habit of getting immediately out of bed, giving up on sleep without a fight. At Jo's house, in her bed, he would lay still awhile before carefully untangling and slipping out from under the sheet, allow sleep a chance to catch up with him again, and sometimes, to his surprise, it would. But in his room the restlessness in the night was a bell and he was Pavlov's dog, back at the kitchen table at two in the morning finishing cleaning his gun and sipping a bourbon.

Tim was thinking about the weekend past while he put away his cleaning kit and poured a second drink, thinking about Raylan's comment that Ryan must be a good friend to pull up at a moment's notice and drive eight hours, no details requested or needed, to help in a borderline illegal hunt for a wanted felon.

And more, if Tim had asked.

Ryan would've helped bury the body. And that's what it came down to. That's what Raylan was saying, was wondering aloud.

There was a particularly drunken evening in barracks, after Ranger school, after his fourth combat rotation, just before he was moved to the sniper platoon, an evening where Tim and his rifle squad were having the post-combat-party party, the second night back before everyone splintered off for block leave, and they were discussing, in raucous and unfiltered terms, the difference between a friend and an acquaintance.

"An acquaintance wouldn't help you bury the body," said Ryan, always joking and yet at the same time deadly serious, flat on the floor balancing an open bottle of Jameson on his chest.

They had all soberly, a sober you can only feel when you're dead drunk, agreed. Tim knew he would help Ryan bury the body, no questions asked, any time, any place, and Ryan would do the same for him. The confidence was like breathing, it just came with living.

Tim was sifting through the names and faces of the other people in his life, wondering if the same could be said for anyone else he knew – Raylan, Art, Rachel, Chris – and that's when Jo tiptoed down the stairs in one of his shirts and sat like a cat in the chair opposite him and reached across the small table and set her hand on his head and dragged it down his face. When she was done and her hand landed on the tabletop, he was grinning for her.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"You're like a cat," she said. "You act like you don't need anybody, but you sure like to be petted."

"I was thinking the same thing about you."

"No, you weren't."

"Maybe not quite so poetically."

She considered the statement. "Okay. I'll buy that."

Jo walked her fingers across the table and over the handgun he'd been cleaning. "That's a lethal-looking piece of hardware."

"Yep."

"Is it yours or is it work's?"

"It's mine." Tim had a lock box on the table that he opened and he pulled out another handgun. "This is my Marshal issue – it's a Glock."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I could tell right away," she said, liberally facetious. "It's black, more official." She picked up his glass and helped herself and he went to the cupboard for another. She was watching him as he filled it and sat back down. "Do you ever stay in bed all night?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Working fugitives for the Marshals Service isn't exactly a nine-to-five job."

"No, but it doesn't require you getting up at 2am to clean your gun, either. Who were you hunting this weekend?"

"The guy who threw the grenades at me."

"You caught him?"

Tim nodded, new glass full and resting on his lip.

"Then why are you angry still?"

He took a mouthful and set the glass down. He didn't bother denying that he was still angry. She wasn't one to lie to. "Because he's not dead and somebody else is."

"Who is?"

"Oh, I got a list," he said, without emotion. "How's the new job?"

"It pays the bills. Do you keep it written down and tucked under your pillow?"

"Do I keep…what?"

"Your list? Is it your pillow book?"

"What the fuck are you on about?"

"Sei Shōnagon, Japanese lady in a Japanese court hundreds of years ago, she wrote the famous _Pillow Book_ – a journal, lists, gossip about events, tragedies in her life, all equally treated, laid out without passion. It was considered _not cool_ then to be emotional in your writing."

"Well, it's kinda hard to be emotional with a list."

"Yeah. Isn't that convenient?"

He looked at her blankly for a moment or two then she dragged him back to bed and he curled around her.

* * *

"Range?" Tim stood at Nelson's desk, end of the day. It had been a blissfully uneventful day, from the morning coffee straight through lunch and into the afternoon, a day to catch your breath and catch up on the dull details.

Nelson's head snapped up from the keyboard. "Uh, yeah, okay. Um…" He looked around the office for approval, and finding no one disapproving, he stood up and shut down his computer and followed Tim out the door.

"Sorry we couldn't start yesterday," said Tim, in the hall waiting for the elevator.

"It's okay. Rachel explained what happened. So you brought the guy in, huh? I thought you weren't supposed to."

"So? My bad." It wasn't Tim's intention that it come out like a growl, more a discontented grumble, but the low notes rattled aggressively.

"Well, yeah, I guess. I just…and I know a guy, state police in Tennessee – he's a cousin, distant – and he was happy they didn't have to go out there the next morning, you know, chasing him in the woods, after everything... He said thanks."

"I had a good idea where he'd be."

"Yeah."

Tim led the way out of the courthouse. It was a short walk to the Lexington Police headquarters and exam center, a badge check to get in. Tim held back, pretended to be fussing with the hearing protection, waiting to see what Nelson would do.

"I'll be right with you," he said. "Go ahead."

Then he stood back and watched Nelson set himself up and fire down range, target set to seven yards. Nelson stopped after five rounds, turned to Tim and looked embarrassed by the scrutiny. Tim stepped up to the line and considered his student.

"I know Weaver stance looks good for the cameras and I'm not knocking it – it's up to you if you want to stick with it – but…that's not what they taught you at Glynco, is it?"

Nelson shook his head.

"Modern Isosceles, man, it's taught for a reason. Easy to duplicate. Centered. Balanced. Why'd you switch?"

"Uh…" Nelson set his handgun on the counter. "One of my first postings, there was this senior Marshal and he, uh…"

"He made it look cool."

"Yeah."

"It's cooler if you make your shots."

* * *

Tim didn't go back to the court house afterward. He was restless and walked instead to the hospital to see Art. The visit was an attempt to return something to its place, already a failed endeavor since time stubbornly would not reverse itself, ever, relentlessly stacking days and weeks and months against you.

There was a liquor store on the way and Tim stopped to pick up some bourbon, ducked into a grocery store too, to get some snacks. He walked quickly, everything hurried, purposeful, until he got to the corridor on the floor where Art's room was, then he slowed, hesitating just outside the door briefly. An aggressive tiredness came on him now that he was here. He reached out and knocked, opened the door and grinned.

"Hey, boss."

"Tim. You're still alive."

"Apparently so are you."

"I'm going home tomorrow. They just want to make sure I can still shit."

"Good luck with that."

"Thanks, I need it."

"Nah, I got what you need," said Tim, pulled his bottle of bourbon from a bag.

"Aw, shit, Tim. Raylan already tried that stunt last week."

"That was last week. This is this week."

"I can't drink. Meds."

"That's why I got you," Tim reached back into the bag and set a matching mini-bottle beside the larger one, "a baby one – it's only 1.7 ounces – to celebrate your release."

Art eyed it. "I'll split it with you."

"Deal."

Tim dumped the water from a glass in the bathroom and poured a mouthful for Art and toasted him with the small bottle.

Art drank it down and licked his lips. "Damn, I miss my life. Someone get me the hell out of here."

They shared a smile.

Art dipped his finger in the glass and ran it around and licked it off, peered in it wistfully now that he was sure it was empty. "You ever do time in a hospital?"

"Once or twice when I was a kid," said Tim. "Once in the Rangers. Never anything very serious though and never very long."

"You're lucky." Art set the glass finally on the table, clearly sorry to let it go. "You keep chasing fugitives like Humphrey by yourself and you might not be so lucky next time."

"Oh, I got it all figured out, Chief. I'll skip the hospital, go straight to the cemetery."

"That's not even funny."

Tim was digging around in the bag again. Art leaned forward to see what he was doing.

"What else you got in there?"

"A chaser." He had bought some non-alcoholic beer, opened two cans and passed one over.

There was an appreciative chuckle from Art. "Leslie's gonna blow if she walks in. You'll be shredded before she notices exactly what it is we're drinking."

Tim turned in his seat and considered the door, swung his chair around so he could keep an eye on it.

"You're helping Nelson, Rachel tells me."

"He'll be fine," said Tim.

"I'm glad he asked you. It was my suggestion."

"He might not be so happy he asked by the time I'm through with him. I had him dry firing most of today. I'm gonna play ball and dummy with him tomorrow. I think he's flinching."

"Ball and dummy?"

"I load his rounds, only he doesn't know if it's a dummy I've loaded or a live one. Should be able to tell for sure if he's twitching on the dummies, anticipating the recoil, you know?"

"Huh." Art was picturing it. "I get it. That's a good idea. Thanks for doing this for him."

"I'd be some kind of idiot not to."

Art took a long drink from his can. It was almost like before, Tim thought, watching him.

"So, talk to me about Humphrey. Why'd you think it was a good idea to chase him yourself?"

Definitely like before. "I wasn't alone."

"That's what Rachel hinted at. Have we got a couple of new deputies in the office that I'm not aware of?"

"Stealth Marshals. Need to know basis."

"Uh-huh."

* * *

It was well into the evening when Tim pulled in at his house, not dark enough yet to hide the chopper prominently displayed on Jo's walkway, a Harley Davidson and a big one. Tim had to admire it – nice bike – got a good look at it walking up to his door. There was no mistaking the emblem painted on the gas tank cover, Charlie and the crossed pistons, iconic colors of The Outlaws, nemesis of the Hells Angels gang. There was some good blues coming from her stereo, voices mixing, a man's and Jo's, easy conversation.

Tim went into his house and opened a beer then he walked to his stereo and cranked up some death metal, the double kick drumming out his message loud and clear through the walls.

* * *

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	16. Chapter 16

**Jigsaw – Chapter Sixteen**

"I told him not to go over. He decided to anyway when I was in the bathroom – belligerent asshole that he is. Everything's a confrontation with him. Thank you for not shooting him on sight."

Jo touched casually on the night's drama as she stretched alongside Tim in the dark, her skin smooth against his, and he kissed up the inside of her arm reaching to the wall by his head. She rolled over to face him and he imagined her smiling though he couldn't see her face with the lights off, and he felt a bit childish about his behavior that evening.

"I really didn't think you cared that much," she said, laughter beneath the words.

She couldn't see the frown either, the one on Tim's face when he said, "Why would you think that?"

"Because…you're a list." She slid her hand down and petted his cheek. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. It makes it easier to pretend I don't care."

The figure that had finally appeared at Tim's door to complain about his choice of music and the volume he was playing it at, the one attached to the fist pounding on the frame, wasn't who Tim had hoped it would be. It wasn't Jo. Graying hair tied back, vest with more Charlie and pistons sewn into the leather as warning, more tattoos than Tim and Jo combined, jeans, black biker boots, black biker glare, an Outlaw without a doubt – the man had the look. Tim's hand twitched to his hip when he saw him then slipped around behind to the sub-compact he'd slid into the back of his jeans, always prepared.

When he saw Tim, the man leaned into the screen to shout his demands, a hand on either side of Tim's door frame, filling it. "Turn that fucking shit down!"

Tim slowed his approach to a stroll, pushed open the screen forcing the man behind it to back up. The reaction from each, a measured and forced grin, was an instinctive and immediate recognition of the enemy, the thin letter of the law a gaping gulf between them.

"Sorry," Tim yelled over the music. "I didn't hear you."

The man stepped back up to the doorsill, arms spread again, aggressively leaning into Tim's personal space. Tim could read the tattoo running up one arm, _God forgives,_ and down the other, _Outlaws don't._

"I said turn it the fuck down!" He pushed his face in the last few inches, voice rumbling like the engine of his Harley. "You don't want this kind of trouble, kid."

"Neither do you, pops."

"Daddy?" Jo's voice cut through as the track ended, a second or two of quiet.

_Daddy._ _Shit._ Tim hadn't expected that. He swallowed his attitude, backed away, backed into his hallway and into his living room and turned the music down. He left them alone. Later, he listened to the Harley starting up, rumbling off down the street into the distance like thunder passing over and on. And Jo arrived shortly after, steaming up his house like nothing happened.

Tim decided not to think about it until he had to, and he hoped he would never have to. But later, lying relaxed, and with her laughing at him and petting his face, curiosity niggled. "Why didn't you tell me your dad's an Outlaw considering what I do for a living?"

"It's not a secret," she said, lips brushing his as she spoke. "I didn't know he was dropping by tonight. He'll do that – just show up."

"You don't think it might've been something to come up in conversation before now, that your dad's likely on the police database?"

"You just never ask me much of anything."

So he started asking. "Is your mom in the Russian mob? Might be a good time to let me know."

"No!" She bit his lip.

"Ow."

"She runs the office in an insurance company in Iowa."

"Iowa?"

"The Outlaws don't have a chapter there."

"Right. Yeah, okay, I get that. So why are you here then, in Kentucky?"

"I like Lexington. I didn't want to leave. She moved. I stayed."

"How old were you when she left?"

"Eighteen. My uncle took me on as an apprentice in his trade."

"Tiler."

"That's right."

Tim thought back. "I was seventeen when I left home."

"Why'd you leave?"

"High school was done. I enlisted."

"Your mom let you, so young?"

"She didn't want me to, but I had to get out of there. My dad was happy to sign the papers. He had to be good for something." He thought of one more question he should ask. "Got any brothers or sisters running with the Outlaws too?"

"Mm-mm." A sleepy no. "At least not that I know of. I have a half-brother somewhere. So Daddy tells me."

They talked awhile longer, sharing memories of high school and family. The sentences became shorter, disjointed, softer and further apart. Tim fell asleep first.

His phone rang, waking them up at five the next morning. It was Louisiana calling, SOG headquarters gathering in the team. Tim packed, gave Jo a key and left for the airport.

* * *

It was Tim's first time in Miami. Raylan described it as hot, and it was hot. Tim didn't like it much. He didn't like the people, didn't like the city, didn't like the ocean either. He commented on it to one of the other team members, ex-Army too and becoming a friend slowly.

"You have to grow up on a coast to be comfortable with an ocean," he replied. He was from Maine.

Tim had spent occasional weekends on a boat in the reaches and inlets near Tacoma, Washington while he was serving with the 2nd battalion there, had been out on Puget Sound past Seattle and into the Juan de Fuca Strait, but there was still a lot of land between him and the Pacific Ocean on those waters. There was nothing _but_ water beyond Miami's beaches. He could see straight out past the strip to the Atlantic from his vantage point on the roof of a tall parking garage. He set up with his rifle and waited and glanced now and then at the endless expanse of blue and wondered why anyone would want to be out there. It was sparkling and friendly-looking today but he wasn't fooled. The ocean couldn't be trusted. He preferred a forest, even the bare and rocky mountain ranges of Afghanistan were better than all that water.

His earpiece crackled, telling him the party was starting at the court house, the guests arriving. He scanned windows and rooftops and watched the protestors and gawkers and reporters crowding outside the barriers but nothing happened to disrupt the high-profile, threat-riddled trial. A revelation from the witness stand turned the prosecution inside-out and the trial was postponed indefinitely, or so he was told by their team leader as they packed up. Four days in the sun with a rifle and Tim was paid for the trouble. He got a bit of a tan too. Not a bad gig.

He had an afternoon to kill on the last day before his flight back home, so Tim used the time to visit the Miami Police Department's Homicide Division. It wasn't a social call; he had a question. He showed his badge and asked his question and was passed further and further down the seniority line, no one interested, until he ended up talking to a young woman on a desk, newly minted at the police academy, still a happy and genuine smile. Tim repeated his request, again, for her.

"I'm sorry, I don't know," she said. "I only started here last month."

Bureaucracy and bullshit politics were part of every job and Tim tried hard not to let it get him down. He ran a hand over his mouth and took a breath and the girl sat up a little straighter, looking worriedly at him, aware of the frustration beginning to show at his edges.

"This particular murder," said Tim, words evenly spaced, "is fucking freaky enough that I know, if I could just talk to one of the detectives, they'd remember it. It won't take much time. Who's in right now?"

"Uh, I don't…"

His patience ran out. He'd gotten past the security barriers at the front door with his Marshals ID and had access to the entire building unless someone decided to tackle him and throw him out, so he stepped around her desk and marched down the hallway, ignoring her protests and peering in doors, searching for a room with a warm body sitting in it. He was looking for someone older, someone who might have been on the job a while, and when he found a likely someone, he marched into her office and sat down across the desk from her.

"Who are you?"

The office's occupant looked hard-nosed enough to take on a disgruntled Deputy Marshal. Tim watched her put up her defenses as she demanded his name, eyes moving between him and the young officer at her door who'd trailed desperately after Tim, trying to salvage the situation and take back control.

"Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson." He showed his star, again. "Who are you?"

"Detective Clemente."

"Homicide?"

"This is the homicide floor."

"Perfect. I have a quick question. Do you remember…"

She interrupted, hand out to stop him, and spoke to the anxious officer still lingering nervously. "It's alright, Tammy, I'll deal with it."

More of Tim's emergency reserves of patience were used up waiting until he had the detective's attention. He made a brusque motion with his arm to check the time on his watch and Clemente's eyes snapped warily back to him.

"I'm sorry. What were you saying, Deputy Gutterson?"

He recognized his own dismissive head tilt used against him and dug deep for a bit of serenity and repeated his question. "Do you have any recollection in the last few years of a murder involving a homeless man…?"

"Vagrants die all the time."

"Can I finish?"

She shrugged.

"The victim was stabbed and then the fingers cut off and stuffed in his mouth. Different enough you might remember."

She looked directly at him. "Yes."

"Yes?" Tim hadn't expected a yes, had hoped, in fact, for a no.

"It's hard to forget something like that – pretty creepy. It was a few years ago, though."

"You get anyone for it?"

"We had nothing to go on. I don't think we even managed to identify the victim. Difficult to do with cases like that. No one came forward to claim the body, no dental records, nothing."

Tim wet his lips. "Any chance I could have a look at the case file?"

"Why?"

"There was a similar killing in Atlanta recently."

"Are you with the Atlanta bureau?"

"No."

Another head tilt. "Is the Marshals Service handling homicides now? Did I miss a memo?"

"No. It's nothing official. I'm just looking into something on my..."

"I'm busy, Deputy Gutterson."

"So's everybody, so stop wasting time arguing with me. Can you just get me the case number? I'll get the file."

She gave in, slid her keyboard closer and entered some information into her computer, jotted a series of numbers onto a piece of paper and held it out for him.

"Thank you very much," he said, standing up.

She was still reading from her screen, still holding the other end of the slip of paper. She frowned.

"What?"

"There's reference here to another case, more recent." She chewed on her lip. "I was on maternity leave, I guess." She pulled the paper back from Tim's fingers and wrote a second number on it, then a phone number on the bottom. "You're thinking this is becoming a hobby for someone?"

"Maybe."

"Call me if you find something?"

"Sure. Whatever."

"Nobody's going to work very hard on something like this. It's pretty low on the priorities," she said, an apology of sorts.

"It's okay. I get it."

She nodded, distracted. Tim dropped his card on her keyboard and left.

The young officer on the front desk hesitated when Tim showed her the case numbers, but made a call and Tim was escorted to a room to view the files. He waited until the officer who had brought him the folders left then he stuffed them in his duffel bag and walked out of the building and caught a cab for the airport. It's not like anyone would miss them, he reasoned.

It made him angry, reading through the files on the plane back to Lexington. Both were at best cursory efforts at an investigation. Tim was surprised anyone had bothered to register the possible connection between the two homicides. One was from four years earlier; the more recent was from the past summer. Both victims were homeless, lost souls; both had their fingers cut off and jammed into their mouths. Forensics on one of the cases – someone had bothered with a bit of investigative work – suggested that the victim was killed with a knife, but the markings on the severed finger bones matched the scoring from a jigsaw. The crime scene photos were remarkably similar, and similar to Atlanta Phil's murder. That was three and Max had hinted about another in Orlando.

It was late when he touched down in Kentucky, but he made a few quick phone calls outside the airport before he drove home, left a message for the detective in Atlanta and one for his friend at the FBI, then he tried Max's burner, let it ring while he walked to his truck.

* * *

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End file.
